GIFT 


Paul  Steindorff 
1864-1934 


Choragus 
Univ.  Of  California 


w 


L 


NOTED   MEN  AND  WOMEN 


*^ 


COPYRIGHT,  1910 

BY 

JAMES  W.  MORRISSEY 
NEW  YORK 


THE    KLEBOLD    PRESS 


MARY  ANDERSON 
(MADAME  DE  NAVARRO) 


NOTED  MEN 
AND  WOMEN 

A  Profusely  Illustrated  Book 


CONTAINING      THE 

Humor,  Wit,  Sentiment 
and  Diplomacy  in  the 
Social,  Artistic  and 
Business  Lives  of  the 
people  herein  set  forth 


BY 

JAMES    W.    MORRISSEY 


f 

&/*~ 


Vomrtt 

whose  names  appear  in  this  volume,  many  of 

whom  are  endeared  to  me  in 
The  Sacred  Ties  of  Everlasting  Friendship ', 

these  stories  are 
sincerely  and  affectionately  dedicated. 

JAMES  W.  MORRISSEY. 


M279074 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Mary  Anderson  (Madame  de  Navarro) Frontispiece 

Jay  Gould  I 

Mme.  Parepa-Rosa  I 

Christine  Nilsson  I 

Anton  Rubinstein  27 

Clara  Louise  Kellogg 27 

P.  S.  Gilmore 27 

Emma  Abbott   49 

Sir  Charles  Wyndham  65 

Major-General  Benjamin  F.  Butler 72a 

Charles  A.  Dana 72a 

Pauline  L'Allemand   83 

Dom  Pedro,  Emperor  of  Brazil 99 

Annie   Louise   Cary    99 

Pasquale  Brignoli  99 

Fanny   Davenport    117 

Mile.   Aimee    117 

Hortense  Rhea   133 

General  Howard  Carroll  149 

McKee  Rankin   149 

Adelina  Patti  169 

Joseph  Jefferson  169 

Ignace  Jan  Paderewski 169 

Henry  Ward  Beecher   185 

Anton  Seidl  185 

Theodore  Thomas  185 

Frank  Tilford  199 

Emma  Juch  199 

Queen  Victoria  2o6a 

Zelie  de  Lussan  2o6a 

Julia  Allen   219 

Tennie  C.  Claflin   219 

Victoria  Woodhull    219 

Rose  Coghlan   233 

Signer  Campanari   233 

DeWolf  Hopper  233 

Mary  Anderson  (Madame  de  Navarro) 247 

Nelson  Roberts  . , 247 

James  W.  Morrissey   247 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I. 

CHARLES  DICKENS,  SAMUEL  F.  B.  MORSE, 
TERESA  CARRENO,  ADELAIDE  RISTORI, 
JACOB  GRAU,  JAY  GOULD,  JAMES  FISK,  JR., 
MARIE  AIMEE,  CHRISTINE  NILSSON,  PA- 
REPA-ROSA. 

CHAPTER  II. 

ANTON  RUBINSTEIN,  A  STEINWAY,  P.  S.  GIL- 
MORE,  EMMA  ABBOTT,  CLARA  LOUISE 
KELLOGG,  HORACE  GREELY,  BARONESS 
SOLOMON  DE  ROTHSCHILD,  JUDGE  HIL- 
TON. 

CHAPTER  III. 

EMMA  ABBOTT  AGAIN,  A  SOUTHERN  PREACH- 
ER, GENERAL  SHERMAN,  GENERAL  "PHIL" 
SHERIDAN,  COL.  HENRY  WATTERSON, 
FAMOUS  ABBOTT  Kiss." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MAJOR-GENERAL  BENJAMIN  F.  BUTLER, 
CHARLES  A.  DANA,  CHARLES  DELMONICO, 
SIR  CHARLES  WYNDHAM,  A  MILITARY 
RECEPTION. 


CHAPTER  V. 

PAULINE  L'ALLEMAND,  A  PRIMA  DONNA'S 
JEALOUSY,  DIPLOMACY  TO  THE  FRONT,  A 
SINGER  IN  DISTRESS. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

DOM  PEDRO,  EMPEROR  OF  BRAZIL,  BUYS  A 
PIANO,  A  MUSICAL  CONGRESS,  ANNIE 
LOUISE  GARY,  JULIA  RIVE  KING,  HENRY 
WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW,  RAFAEL  Jo- 
SEFFY,  PASQUALE  BRIGNOLI. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

FANNY  DAVENPORT,  OWEN  FAWCETT,  "A 
FROST"  IN  GALVESTON,  GENERAL  BEAU- 
REGARD,  "NAT"  BURBANK,  SARASATE  AND 
D'ALBERT,  Two  DANDY  COWBOYS. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

HORTENSE  RHEA,  EUGENE  FIELD,  A  DISTIN- 
GUISHED ADVANCE  AGENT,  A  MANAGER- 
IAL QUARREL,  A  BIRTH  ON  A  TRAIN, 
"Miss  WYOMING." 

CHAPTER  IX. 

McKEE  RANKIN,  JOAQUIN  MILLER,  GENERAL 
HOWARD  CARROLL,  CHESTER  A.  ARTHUR, 


"AN  AMERICAN  COUNTESS/'  EBEN  JOR- 
DAN, "THE  MOST  PERFECT  FOOT  IN  NEW 
ENGLAND,"  WILLIAM  A.  BRADY. 

CHAPTER  X. 

JOSEPH  JEFFERSON,  IGNACE  PADEREWSKI 
AND  STEINWAY,  ADELINA  PATTI,  Six 
THOUSAND  DOLLARS  A  PERFORMANCE, 
RICHARD  MANSFIELD,  THE  NEW  DIANA, 
"PRINCE  KARL"  ANGRY  AT  A  GODDESS. 

CHAPTER  XL 

THEODORE  THOMAS,  P.  S.  GILMORE,  ANTON 
SEIDL,  HENRY  WARD  BEECHER,  EDWIN 
BOOTH  AND  THE  MINISTER  ARE  RIVALS. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

A  PROFESSIONAL  MATINEE,  DANIEL  FROH- 
MAN,  A  GRAND  MUSICAL  FESTIVAL  ON 
WHEELS,  ZELIE  DE  LUSSAN,  QUEEN  VIC- 
TORIA, THE  MAPLESON  OPERATIC  COM- 
PANY, EMMA  JUCH,  A  SOPRANO  AND 
CUPID,  FRANK  TILFORD'S  GENEROSITY. 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

JULIA  ALLEN,  THE  DISCOVERY  OF  A  NIGHTIN- 
GALE, JOHN  D.  CRIMMINS,  "ITALY  AND 
IRELAND,"  VICTORIA  C.  WOODHULL 


(LADY   MARTIN),   TENNIE   C.    CLAFLIN 
(LADY  COOK),  HARRY  NEW. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  PULLMAN  STRIKE,  AN  AWFUL  SCENE, 
"WILLIE"  SEYMOUR'S  SHAKESPEREAN 
FESTIVAL,  A  DISTINGUISHED  GATHERING, 
ROSE  COGHLAN'S  Loss  AND  GAIN,  DE 
WOLF  HOPPER'S  TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY. 

CHAPTER  XV. 

MARY  ANDERSON  (MADAME  DE  NAVARRO), 
NELSON  ROBERTS,  AN  INVITATION  FROM 
AMERICA'S  MOST  EMINENT  MEN  AND 
WOMEN  TO  "OUR  MARY." 


JAY    GOULD 


MME.    PAREPA-ROSA 


CHRISTINE  NILSSON 


CHAPTER  I. 

MUSIC,  HUMOR,  WIT. 

During  the  working  day,  when  the  interiors 
of  theaters  are  in  gloomy  contrast  with  the 
brilliance  of  the  night  before,  there  is  no 
glamour  in  the  theatrical  manager's  life.  He 
is  a  maker  of  contracts,  a  director  of  dry  detail, 
a  business  man.  But  when  night  comes,  and 
lights  are  blazing  before  the  play-houses,  and 
the  crowds  are  surging  in,  the  manager  be- 
comes another  personage.  With  his  cares  hid- 
den behind  an  impressive  front  of  evening 
dress,  he  is  less  a  man  of  business  than  the  em- 
bodiment of  a  smiling  welcome  to  an  alluring 
atmosphere  of  art. 

The  day's  work  brings  him  in  contact  with 
the  unvarnished  side  of  the  world  of  the  stage. 
The  evening's  play  brings  him  in  contact  with 
the  glittering  side  of  the  world  at  large.  In 
the  course  of  time,  if  he  is  a  manager  of  impor- 
tant productions,  his  dual  role  of  play-pro- 
ducer and  host  causes  him  to  know  many  lead- 
ing actors  on  both  the  -stage  behind  the  foot- 
lights and  on  the  wide  stage  of  life  in  general. 

Looking  back  over  a  long  vista  of  days  and 


nights  at  the  theater,  I  can  see  many  interest- 
ing men  and  women  in  many  parts.  One  of  the 
first  that  occurs  to  me  appeared  in  a  little  im- 
promptu comedy  of  his  own  composition,  for 
my  especial  benefit. 

He  was  a  small  rosy-faced  man,  who  wore 
a  carefully  kept  moustache  and  goatee,  and 
extremely  tight  trousers.  His  gray  hair,  I 
remember,  was  brushed  forward  in  front  of  his 
ears.  He  approached  me  at  an  office  in 
Chickering's  piano  store,  on  Broadway 
near  Bleecker-st,  where  I,  a  boy  in  my 
teens,  was  selling  tickets  for  the  much-adver- 
tised readings  which  Charles  Dickens,  who  was 
then  honoring  this  country  with  his  second  and 
last  visit,  was  giving  in  New  York. 

"How  is  the  sale  of  seats  for  the  Dickens 
readings  going?"  inquired  the  dressy  little 
man. 

"Very  well  indeed,"  I  answered,  reaching 
for  my  bunch  of  tickets. 

"Does  Dickens  seem  to  be  taking  in  New- 
York?"  he  then  asked. 

"Does  he  seem  to  be  taking?"  I  exclaimed. 
"Well,  I  should  say  so!  He's  great!  He  hits 
off  his  characters  to  the  very  life.  The  people 
are  falling  over  each  other  to  get  in.  If  you 
haven't  heard  him  yet,  you  want  to  right  away. 


I've  only  a  few  tickets  left  for  this  week.  How 
many  will  you  have?" 

The  man  waved  aside  the  tickets,  which  I 
was  holding  enticingly  before  him,  and  re- 
marked with  a  smile :  "Oh,  I  won't  want  any 
tickets.  I  wouldn't  take  'em  if  you'd  give  them 
to  me.  I  happened  to  be  passing,  and  just 
thought  I'd  drop  in  to  inquire  about  this  man 
Dickens.  I  suspect,  sir,  that  your  enthusiasm 
for  him  is  merely  in  the  way  of  business.  I'll 
warrant  you  that,  for  all  your  praise,  you've 
never  laid  eyes  on  the  great  man." 

I  turned  red,  and  confessed  that  such  was  the 
demand  for  seats  that  I  hadn't  been  able  to  get 
free  tickets,  and  that  their  price  was  beyond  my 
pocket-book.  But  I  assured  him  that  I  had 
heard  a  great  deal  about  Dickens,  and  thus 
knew  whereof  I  spoke. 

"Well,  well!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  a  shame 
that  you  should  miss  this  treat.  Here,  take 
these,  so  that  in  the  future  you  won't  have  to 
speak  from  mere  hearsay  about  so  important 
a  matter.  Yes,  take  them.  I  don't  want  them ; 
I've  heard  Dickens — heard  too  much  of  him." 

He  had  extracted  from  his  wallet  seven  tic- 
kets, which  he  passed  over  to  me.  The  clerks 
at  surrounding  offices  had  stopped  work  and 
were  eyeing  us  with  grins,  but  I  did  not 


suspect  the  reason  until  my  friend  had  gone 
and  Mr.  Chickering  came  over  to  me. 

"Don't  you  know  who  that  was?"  he  said. 
"Why,  that  was  Charles  Dickens  himself." 

During  the  afternoon  I  thought  of  the 
numerous  things  I  could  buy  with  the  money 
from  those  tickets  if  I  should  sell  them.  The 
fact  that  I  resisted  this  temptation  saved  me 
from  what  would  have  been  an  embarrassing 
experience  a  few  days  afterward.  That  night 
my  mother,  my  brother  and  I,  together 
with  some  friends,  went  to  hear  Dickens. 
I  leaned  forward  eagerly  as  I  saw  the 
man  with  whom  I  had  talked  in  the  store 
come  out  and  make  his  bow,  amid  a  great  burst 
of  applause.  Now  that  his  hat  was  off,  I 
noticed  little  curls  on  his  forehead.  His  hair 
above  his  ears  was  still  brushed  forward,  his 
trousers  were  still  tight,  and  he  wore  a  big 
"buttonhole  bouquet."  He  impressed  me  as 
being  a  dapper  man  who  thought  a  good  deal 
about  his  personal  appearance. 

But  for  all  the  care  he  evidently  lavished  on 
his  appearance,  it  did  not  come  up  to  the  ex- 
pectations of  the  audience.  After  the  applause 
had  subsided,  and  Dickens  had  taken  his  seat 
at  a  red  desk,  with  two  lamps  shining  down  on 
it,  and  had  begun  "Marley  was  dead"  in  a  dry, 

6 


husky  voice,  I  remember  that  a  murmur  of 
disappointment  ran  through  the  house. 

But  suddenly  we  had  forgotten  Dickens. 
We  were  all  hushed,  intent  upon  watching  and 
listening  to  old  Scrooge  and  Bob  Cratchett 
there  in  the  dingy  counting-room  on  Christmas 
Eve,  and  a  little  later  to  Tiny  Tim  and  the  rest 
of  the  company  at  that  merry  Christmas  dinner. 
In  the  course  of  the  evening  Dr.  Pickwick 
strutted  into  view,  and  we  beheld  Sam  Weller 
and  his  friends.  Long-legged  Dick  Swiveller 
came  upon  the  scene,  and  with  the  Brasses 
away  went  down  into  the  regions  below  stairs, 
where  he  regaled  with  meat  on  the  end  of  a 
fork  the  hungry  and  shrinking  Marchioness. 

Every  time  one  of  these  familiar  characters 
was  introduced  there  was  a  round  of  applause, 
as  if  for  a  living  being.  We  had  forgotten 
Dickens  for  his  people,  and  the  reason  was  that 
he  was  injecting  his  own  great  vitality  into 
them.  He  seemed  to  become  bony-handed  and 
tremulous  with  old  Scrooge,  pompous  and  well- 
fed  with  Dr.  Pickwick,  rotund  with  Sam  Wel- 
ler, dryly  humorous  with  Dick  Swiveller,  and 
small  and  cowed  with  the  little  Marchioness. 
They  were  all  alive  to  him,  and  so  they  were  to 
us.  The  truth  was  that  Dickens  was  display- 
ing remarkable  ability  as  an  actor. 


Contrary  to  the  custom  among  deadheads,  I 
was  one  of  the  first  in  the  applause  that  night, 
and  when  it  was  all  over  I  was  thankful  that  I 
had  not  sold  those  tickets.  But  glad  as  I  was, 
I  felt  doubly  so  about  a  week  afterward,  when 
Dickens  stepped  briskly  into  the  store  again. 

"Well,  my  boy/'  he  exclaimed  with  a  broad 
smile,  "have  you  heard  that  man  Dickens  yet  ?" 

"I  have,  Mr.  Dickens/'  I  answered,  smiling 
in  an  embarrassed  way  as  I  remembered  my 
remarks  when  he  was  in  before,  "and  I— 

"Well,"  he  cried,  interrupting  me,  "and  now 
I  daresay  you  are  prepared  to  take  back  those 
fine  things  you  said  about  him  the  other  day." 

"Not  a  word  of  them,  not  a  word/'  I  replied 
quickly,  recovering  myself  under  the  influence 
of  his  geniality.  "I  would  add  to  them — add  a 
lot — if  I  could  do  the  subject  justice." 

"Oh,  you  Americans!"  he  cried,  raising  his 
hands  to  his  ears  as  if  to  shut  out  the  compli- 
ments, "you  would  turn  a  man's  head."  With 
that  he  wheeled  about  to  greet  Mr.  Chickering. 

Plenty  of  the  celebrated  men  I  have  met  since 
then  have  been  fond  of  fun,  but  few  have  pos- 
sessed the  degree  of  boyish  high  spirits  and 
keenness  for  an  amusing  -situation  that  Dick- 
ens avowed  when  he  played  his  little  practical 
joke  on  the  unsophisticated  young  ticket-seller. 


I  suppose  I  was  rather  new  to  the  world's 
ways  then,  and  yet  Dickens  was  not  the  first 
celebrity  with  whom  I  came  in  contact.  The 
wealth  and  fashion  of  New- York  and  person- 
ages from  afar  were  wont  to  go  to  the  photo- 
graphic studio  of  Thomas  Paris,  on  Broadway 
near  Eighth-st.,  to  have  their  portraits  made 
on  porcelain,  a  process  which  Paris  had  intro- 
duced from  Berlin,  and  which  had  become  a 
fad.  I  had  recently  been  graduated  from  three 
years'  service  at  the  studio  as  general  utility 
boy,  and  had  seen  something  of  the  vanities  of 
life. 

One  of  the  prominent  persons  of  the  day 
whom  I  observed  at  Faris's,  and  whom  I  still 
can  see  vividly  through  the  fog  of  years,  was 
the  inventor  of  our  telegraphic  system,  Samuel 
P.  B.  Morse,  a  tall  man  with  a  flowing  beard, 
a  large  nose,  and  glasses  which  only  partly 
concealed  the  kindly  expression  in  his  eyes.  In 
appearance  and  manner  he  suggests  to  me,  as 
I  recall  him,  a  man  of  trend  of  mind  vastly  dif- 
ferent from  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow, 
with  whom  some  years  afterward  I  drank  cur- 
rant wine  at  Cambridge. 

Mr.  Morse  was  at  the  studio  several  times  to 
sit  and  see  about  his  pictures,  but  I  remember 
that  he  was  less  interested  in  them  than  the 


photographic  processes.  One  day  when  he  was 
waiting  for  Mr.  Paris,  who  was  busy  with  a 
sitter,  he  began  to  quiz  me.  The  scope  of  what 
I  didn't  know  about  photography  was  compre- 
hensive, and  he  saw  it,  of  course,  but  he  quickly 
set  me  at  my  ease,  and  we  had  a  pleasant  little 
chat.  Paris  afterward  revealed  to  him  the 
mysteries  of  the  dark-room. 

Another  of  those  who  stands  out  in  my  mind 
from  the  crowd  that  came  and  went  at  the 
Paris  studio  was  little  Teresa  Carreno,  no 
longer  little  Teresa,  but  the  woman  who  had 
achieved  world-wide  fame  as  a  pianist.  Her 
father,  the  President  of  a  South  American 
republic,  had  sent  her  to  New- York  for  the  de- 
velopment of  the  musical  talent  which  she  had 
already  shown  in  remarkable  degree.  She  was 
about  twelve  then — a  child  with  a  smooth,  dark 
skin,  a  wealth  of  hair,  and  big  eyes  full  of 
dreams.  I  can  recollect  how  beautiful  I  thought 
she  was  as  she  sat  perched  demurely  in  a  chair 
to  have  her  picture  taken. 

There  was  no  similarity  between  this  delicate 
little  maiden  and  Adelaide  Ristori,  the  Italian 
actress  and  perhaps  the  greatest  tragedienne  of 
that  time.  But  the  latter  also  made  a  great  im- 
pression on  me.  Tall  and  commanding,  with 
a  majestic  carriage,  she  swept  through  the 

10 


studio  as  Queen  Elizabeth  might  have  done. 
I  looked  down  on  her  one  night  from  the  gallery 
of  the  Theater  Francais,  now  the  Fourteenth- 
st.  Theater,  where  she  was  playing  her  first 
engagement  in  this  country.  I  went  again  to 
see  her,  then  again. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  I  happened  to 
meet  young  Maurice  Grau.  This  chance  meet- 
ing was  a  turning  point  for  me.  I  had  known 
Maurice  at  the  Free  Academy,  but  had  seen 
little  of  him  since  we  had  put  scholastic  pur- 
suits behind  us.  He  had  been  a  clever  boy  at 
school,  but  it  was  no  prophetic  feeling  as  to  his 
future  fame  that  caused  me  that  night  to  greet 
him  with  enthusiasm.  In  my  eyes  he  was  al- 
ready an  important  person,  because  he  was  the 
nephew  of  Jacob  Grau,  manager  of  the  Theater 
Francais. 

He  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  at  the  theater, 
and  after  this  freshening  of  old  acquaintance 
I  ventured  to  call  on  him  there,  getting  past 
the  doorkeeper  without  a  ticket,  a  consumma- 
tion that  I  had  figured  on.  Opportunities  like 
this  were  not  to  be  neglected.  My  social  visits 
to  the  Theater  Francais  became  frequent.  I 
couldn't  keep  away.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
playhouse,  the  lights,  the  crowd,  the  music  and 
the  acting  of  Ristori,  whose  deep  voice  was  like 

11 


a  tolling  bell  in  the  dramatic  passages,  fasci- 
nated me.  I  began  to  read  classic  plays  at 
home,  and  dreamed  of  becoming  a  great  actor 
myself. 


"Here,  you  boys,  see  what  you  can  do  at 
selling  these  books !" 

It  was  the  heavy,  Teutonic  voice  of  old  Jacob 
Grau,  who  had  evidently  decided  that  Maurice 
and  I  might  as  well  be  useful.  We  took  the 
books  which  contained  the  English  translation 
of  the  Italian  play  that  was  on  the  bill,  and 
entered  zealously  upon  the  work  of  selling 
them,  keeping  five  of  the  twenty-five  cents  we 
received  for  each.  Thus  Maurice  Grau  and  I 
began  our  dramatic  careers  in  the  same  way, 
on  the  same  night. 

We  sold  books  regularly  after  that,  but  in  a 
little  while  Maurice,  who,  as  I  have  said,  was  a 
bright  boy,  was  made  ticket-seller  in  the  box- 
office.  One  night  he  did  not  appear,  and  his 
uncle,  who  was  in  a  fine  German  frenzy  because 
there  was  no  one  to  sell  the  tickets  and  it  was 
time  to  open  the  doors,  saw  me  getting  ready 
for  my  humble  task  with  the  books.  "Here, 
you,  Jimmy/'  he  cried,  "get  you  into  the  box- 
office,  quick !" 

Now,  I  had  always  stood  somewhat  in  awe 
12 


of  the  cold-eyed,  wise-looking  men  who  pre- 
sided in  box-offices,  and  was  frightened  at  the 
prospect  of  trying  to  fulfil  such  important 
duties. 

"But,  Mr.  Grau— "  I  began. 

"I  vant  no  buts,  Morrissey,"  he  interrupted 
sharply.  "I  vant  a  ticket-seller." 

"But  I've  had  no  experience,  Mr.  Grau." 

"Bond  speag  to  me  of  exberience !"  he  cried, 
growing  more  German  in  his  excitement. 
"You'll  ged  all  of  that  you  vant  to-nide.  Must 
ve  stand  here  arguing  when  the  beople  are 
vaiting  with  their  money  at  the  door  ?" 

So  I  took  my  place  in  the  high  chair  behind 
the  window  and  waited  for  the  onslaught.  It 
came  in  a  moment,  the  play  being  a  popular 
one.  The  doors  were  swung  open,  and  there 
was  a  rush  for  the  window.  I  served  the  first 
man  quickly  enough,  and  then  the  next.  In  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  I  was  getting  the  swing  of 
the  thing,  and  a  little  later  I  half  smiled  as  I  felt 
myself  already  falling  into  the  impassive,  au- 
tomatic box-office  manner. 

But  it  was  exciting  work.  That  line  seemed 
never-ending.  Finally,  however,  my  ears 
caught  the  sliding  sound  of  the  rising  curtain, 
and  I  had  to  deal  with  only  a  few  belated 
stragglers.  At  last  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair 

13 


with  a  sense  of  great  relief.  My  neck  behind 
was  tired,  but  I  didn't  mind  then,  because  I  had 
a  feeling  that  now  I  was  a  theatrical  man  for 
certain. 

I  had  only  one  worry  then :  the  counting  up. 
I  wondered  how  many  times  in  my  haste  I  had 
given  too  much  change.  When  Mr.  Grau  came 
for  the  money,  and  they  began  to  count  it,  I 
became  anxious.  It  seemed  to  me  that  it  took 
them  a  long  time  to  count  that  money.  Sud- 
denly the  manager  came  up  behind  me. 

"You  did  all  right,  Jimmy,  poy.  There's 
pretty  near  tree  tousand  dollar  in  the  house, 
and  you  got  it  all.  In  fact,  you  toog  in  tree  too 
much." 

It  was  a  proud  night  for  me.  I  sold  tickets 
for  a  week,  when  Maurice  came  back.  This 
was  the  way  I  gained  the  bit  of  experience  that 
led  soon  afterward  to  my  selling  tickets  for  the 
Dickens  readings,  and  then  at  Pike's  Opera 
House,  now  the  Grand  Opera  House,  on 
Eighth-ave.  near  Twenty-third-st,  New- York 
City.  Shortly  after  I  began  there  as  a  full- 
fledged  treasurer,  the  theater  and  its  contracts 
for  attractions  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Erie 
Railroad.  Jay  Gould  and  James  Fisk,  Jr.,  be- 
ing responsible.  Mr.  Gould  was  the  father  of 
George,  Howard,  Edwin,  Frank,  Helen  and 

14 


Anna  (the  Countess  de  Castellane,  now  the 
Princess  de  Sagan),  the  exciting  and  sensa- 
tional episodes  in  whose  lives  would  fill  a  good 
sized  volume,  Gould  and  Fisk  established  their 
offices  on  the  second  floor,  gave  the  house  its 
present  name,  and  became  active  theatrical 
managers. 

They  managed  with  a  vengeance.  Probably 
no  theater  ever  had  a  more  tempestuous  sea- 
son than  this  one  had  under  Gould  and  Fisk. 
I  well  remember  that  one  night  when  I  was 
summoned  to  the  big  room  up-stairs  by  Mr. 
Gould  I  had  to  step,  in  almost  total  darkness, 
between  the  prostrate  forms  of  at  least  fifty  of 
the  doughty  henchmen  of  Mr.  Fisk. 

They  were  sleeping  on  the  floor,  having  been 
in  the  building  for  four  days,  all  heavily  armed, 
to  protect  their  chief  from  process-servers  and 
deputy  sheriffs  bent  on  executing  papers  in 
an  action  brought  by  the  English  stockholders 
of  the  Erie. 

Fisk  had  sworn  that  no  minions  of  the  law 
would  get  at  him,  and  they  didn't.  Boss  Tweed, 
then  in  control  of  the  city,  was  his  friend.  After 
a  siege  of  about  a  week  the  storming  force  was 
called  off,  and  Fisk  was  able  to  appear  on  the 
street  again. 

But  this  was  not  the  only  nor  the  most  ex- 
is 


citing  siege  to  which  the  theater  was  subjected 
that  season.  The  day  came  that  is  still  vividly 
remembered  by  veterans  in  Wall  Street  as 
"Black  Friday."  Albert  Speyers  committed 
suicide  on  the  floor  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  and 
hundreds  faced  ruin.  The  blame  was  laid  to 
Gould  and  Fisk,  and  rage  against  them  was  in- 
tense. '  It  was  well  known  that  they  spent  their 
evenings  at  the  theater,  and  that  night  when 
we  opened  the  doors  we  were  confronted  by  a 
mob  of  at  least  five  thousand  strong.  Some 
carried  revolvers,  and  all  were  intent  upon 
getting  at  Gould  and  Fisk. 

We  sent  hurry  messages  to  several  police- 
stations,  and  in  short  order  a  big  force  of  police 
were  on  the  ground.  They  took  their  places 
at  the  entrances,  and  the  doors  leading  to  the 
offices  up-stairs  were  doubly  guarded.  As  we 
purposed  to  give  the  show,  despite  the  mob,  a 
lot  of  them  stormed  into  the  lobby,  where  I 
was  stationed.  Many  of  them  were  brokers, 
who  knew  me. 

"Where  are  they,  Morrissey,  where  are 
they?"  they  kept  demanding  in  loud  voices, 
clutching  at  me  in  their  excitement. 

"Gentlemen,"  I  answered  a  dozen  times,  "you 
must  know  that  they  wouldn't  be  here  under 

16 


the  circumstances.  I  can't  say  where  they  are, 
except  that  they  are  not  in  the  theater." 

This  was  the  truth.  They  were  not  in  the 
theater,  but  in  Fisk's  house,  the  drawing-room 
of  which  had  a  door  opening  into  one  of  the 
theater  boxes.  They  stayed  there  for  a  week, 
almost  altogether  cut  off  from  communication 
with  the  outer  world.  The  newspapers  had  it 
that  they  had  left  the  city. 

But  the  public  wrath  subsided  as  quickly  as 
it  had  risen,  and  ten  days  after  "Black  Friday" 
Gould  and  Fisk  were  again  smiling  in  the 
theater  foyer. 

Like  an  ordinary  manager,  Mr.  Gould  was 
wont  to  station  himself  there  at  night,  sur- 
veying the  brilliant  throng  as  it  streamed 
in,  bowing  to  acquaintances,  occasionally 
scribbling  an  order  for  a  box  or  or- 
chestra chairs,  and  watching  the  business 
always.  Frequently  his  small  figure  would 
be  hidden  in  the  crowd  during  the  busy 
moments  just  before  the  raising  of  the  curtain, 
but  we  would  be  certain  that  nothing  was 
escaping  those  luminous  eyes  beneath  the  im- 
pressive expanse  of  forehead.  We  marveled 
at  his  attention  to  small  details  at  the  theater, 
knowing  that  he  was  navigating  a  stormy  sea 

17 


of  railroad  manipulation,  and  that  his  mind 
was  freighted  with  big  cares. 

But  the  truth  was  that  this  theatrical  man- 
agement was  Jay  Gould's  play.  I  know  that  in 
the  stress  of  the  day's  work  in  the  Erie  Rail- 
road offices  above  the  theater  he  used  to  look 
forward  to  the  hour  when  he  could  get  into 
that  velvet  jacket  of  his,  eat  a  leisurely  dinner 
served  by  Chef  Ferdinand  and  his  staff  in  the 
private  dining-room,  and  then  descend  to  the 
glowing  foyer  to  act  as  a  director  of  operatic 
art. 

There  was  an  artistic  and  imaginative  side 
to  Jay  Gould's  nature.  It  was  his  fondness  for 
music  and  drama  and  the  atmosphere  of  the 
theater  that  caused  him  to  virtually  take  up 
his  abode  in  the  Grand  Opera  House.  It  was 
his  appreciation  of  painting  that  caused  him  to 
employ  Giovanni  Garibaldi,  the  famous  mural 
artist,  to  lavishly  decorate  a  large  reception- 
room  and  combined  council-chamber  and 
banquet-hall  on  the  floor  above  the  thea- 
ter auditorium.  It  was  his  liking  for  the 
creature  comforts  that  caused  him  to 
have  these  apartments  most  luxuriously 
furnished,  and  to  install  Ferdinand,  one  of  the 
best  chefs  in  New- York,  in  a  specially  equipped 
kitchen  in  the  building.  With  these  facilities 

18 


for  entertainment  he  delighted  in  giving  sup- 
pers in  the  banquet-hall  after  the  opera,  and 
was  particularly  well  pleased  when  the  table 
was  lined  with  beautiful  women. 


One  of  these  suppers  I  shall  never  forget, 
because,  in  the  first  place,  it  caused  cold  per- 
spiration of  anxiety  to  stand  out  on  my  young 
brow,  and  because,  secondly,  it  turned  out  to 
be  an  ideal  function  of  its  kind.  The  opera  that 
night  was  "La  Perichole,"  and  in  the  leading 
role  was  Mile.  Aimee,  the  little  queen  of  opera 
bouffe,  she  who  had,  as  she  told  me  herself,  left 
Paris,  besieged  by  the  Prussians,  in  a  balloon 
to  get  to  the  sea-coast  and  America  to  fill  this 
engagement. 

The  operatic  season  in  New- York  that  year 
was  a  brilliant  one.  Christine  Nilsson  was  at 
the  Academy  of  Music,  and  Madame  Parepa- 
Rosa,  the  celebrated  head  of  a  German  opera 
company,  was  turning  them  away  from  the 
Stadt  Theater  on  the  Bowery  at  eight  dollars 
a  piece  for  seats  in  the  orchestra.  By  a  coinci- 
dence neither  was  singing  on  this  particular 
night,  and  both  had  come,  each  with  a  large 
party,  to  hear  Mile.  Aimee. 

Mr.  Gould  looked  in  on  me  in  my  little  office. 

"Mr.   Morrissey,"   he   said,   "I  understand 

19 


that  Nilsson  and  Parepa-Rosa  are  honoring  us 
to-night.  How  many  are  there  in  their  par- 
ties?" 

"About  fifteen  in  both,"  I  answered. 
"They're  in  opposite  boxes,  and  a  little  while 
ago  I  noticed  that  the  prima  donnas  were  re- 
garding each  other  rather  coldly.  It's  a  way 
that  rival  singers  have,  you  know." 

"We  can't  permit  that  in  this  temple  of 
peaceful  art,"  laughed  Mr.  Gould.  "I  intend 
to  make  these  ladies  friends.  The  fact  is,  I'm 
going  to  give  Ferdinand  orders  to  get  them  up 
a  supper.  Invite  them  and  their  parties  in  my 


name." 


"But  what  if  they  won't  accept,  Mr.  Gould," 
I  suggested. 

"They  will  if  you  manage  right,"  he  an- 
swered. "I  leave  it  to  you.  I  want  to  have 
them  at  this  supper." 

In  a  slang  of  to-day,  I  saw  that  it  was  "up  to 
me,"  I  knew  well  enough  that  famous  prima 
donnas  were  in  the  habit  of  standing  on  their 
dignity,  and  were  extremely  likely  to  look  ask- 
ance at  an  offhand  invitation  from  a  man,  how- 
ever well-known,  whom  they  have  never  met. 
There  was  also  the  complication  of  professional 
jealousy.  I  had  no  acquaintance  with  either  of 
the  women.  Indeed,  being  comparatively 

20 


young  and  inexperienced,  I  stood  somewhat  in 
awe  of  these  celebrities  of  two  continents.  But 
I  realized  vividly  that  it  would  never  do  for  me 
to  fail  Mr.  Gould  in  this  case. 

I  had  no  idea  of  how  to  go  about  my  task, 
but,  like  the  good  general  who  surveys  the  field 
before  an  engagement  I  went  into  the  audi- 
torium to  take  a  look  at  the  enemy.  They  made 
a  resplendent  picture,  but  to  me  a  formidable 
one.  I  stood  behind  the  orchestra  chairs,  much 
perplexed,  when  suddenly  in  the  crowd  of 
modish  men  and  women  in  Nilsson's  box  I  dis- 
cerned a  familiar  face.  "Tom  Doremus!"  I 
exclaimed  exultingly  to  myself.  It  took  me  not 
more  than  fifteen  seconds  to  write  a  line  on  a 
card  and  send  it  by  an  usher  to  the  box  door.  I 
knew  that  he  was  the  man  to  help  me,  remem- 
bering that  Nilsson  was  a  guest  at  the  house  of 
his  father,  Professor  Doremus. 

"Tom,"  I  exclaimed  when  he  appeared,  look- 
ing rather  surprised,  "I'm  in  a  hole,  and  I've 
come  to  ask  you  to  help  me  out." 

"How  mu — ?"  He  was  thrusting  his  hand 
into  his  pocket. 

"No,  no,"  I  hastily  interrupted,  "I  don't 
want  to  borrow  money."  Then  I  explained. 

He  looked  dubious.     "You  see,  Morrissey, 

31 


we've  arranged  for  a  little  spread  up  at  the 
house  to-night." 

"I  suppose  so,  I  suppose  so.  I  knew  it  would 
be  that  way.  And  yet  Gould  has  set  his 
heart  on  this  thing,  and  my  standing  with  him 
depends  upon  my  putting  it  through."  I  think 
there  was  a  touch  of  despair  in  my  voice  that 
moved  him,  for  after  a  moment's  thought  he 
remarked : 

"So  it  is  as  bad  as  that,  is  it  ?  I'd  like  to  help 
you."  Then  he  added  impulsively:  "And,  by 
Jove,  I  will!  Have  you  a  messenger  I  could 
send  across  town  ?" 

"A  dozen  of  them,"  I  cried. 

"All  right  then.  I'm  host  this  evening,  and 
will  accept  for  my  crowd." 

My  spirits  went  up  like  a  rocket.  I  was  keen 
now  for  corraling  Parepa-Rosa  and  her  party, 
and  scanned  her  box  eagerly  for  a  friend.  It 
did  not  surprise  me  much  when  I  saw  one,  for  I 
knew  most  of  the  young  men  who  frequented 
the  theaters.  I  sent  my  card  to  Harry  Harper, 
of  the  famous  publishing  house. 

"I'm  afraid  it  can't  be  done  this  evening, 
Jimmie,"  he  told  me.  "Only  a  few  minutes  ago 
madam  remarked  that  she  was  tired  and  would 
be  glad  to  get  a  good  night's  rest.  I'll  ask  her, 
but  I'm  sure  she  will  decline." 


"Don't  do  it  then,"  I  broke  in  quickly.  "I 
don't  want  to  be  too  abrupt  about  this  question. 
I'll  try  to  think  up  some  form  of  invitation  that 
will  appeal  to  her.  I'll  come  back  here  in  half 
an  hour." 

Flushed  with  my  little  victory  on  the  other 
side  of  the  house,  I  was  determined  to  make  it 
complete.  The  half-hour  passed  slowly,  be- 
cause I  had  hardly  seated  myself  at  my  desk  to 
think  when  I  hit  upon  a  plan. 

"I've  got  it  Harry,"  I  said  gleefully  when  he 
again  came  out  of  the  box  to  see  me.  "I  want 
you  to  tell  Parepa-Rosa  that  Mile.  Aimee  would 
feel  much  honored  if  she  could  be  presented  to 
the  great  prima  donna,  whom  she  has  long  fer- 
vently admired,  in  the  green  room  immediately 
after  the  opera.  Madam  will  consent  to  this, 
I'm  sure.  Leave  the  rest  to  me." 

"All  right,"  laughed  Harper.  "It  seems  a 
shame  to  get  a  lady  to  supper  by  a  trick;  but 
I'll  be  your  silent  partner  in  it,  whatever  it  may 
be." 

The  thing  happened  as  I  had  planned.  I  got 
both  parties  into  the  green-room.  Nilsson  and 
Parepa-Rosa  bowed  politely  to  each  other,  and 
Aimee,  with  the  intoxication  of  her  own  sing- 
ing still  upon  her,  was  all  gaiety  and  sparkle. 
There  was  much  chatter,  many  compliments — 

23 


a  mutual  admiration  party — until  when  there 
was  a  little  lull  I  raised  my  voice : 


"And  now  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  think  it 
will  interest  you  to  take  a  glimpse  into  the 
offices  from  which  the  operation  of  a  great 
railway  system  is  directed.  I'm  going  to  ask 
you  to  follow  me  up-stairs." 

We  had  the  rooms  brilliantly  lighted.  Our 
guests  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  the  reception- 
room  with  exclamations  of  delight  and  aston- 
ishment that  there  were  in  existence  business 
offices  as  palatial  as  these.  As  we  were  saun- 
tering slowly  over  the  rich,  soft  carpet  inspect- 
ing the  paintings,  Gould,  Fisk,  Oakley  Hall, 
then  Mayor  of  the  City,  William  M.  Tweed 
and  two  or  three  others  appeared.  I  per- 
formed the  introductions,  and  as  I  did  so  I  was 
gently  leading  that  big  party  toward  some 
heavy  curtains. 

Suddenly  at  a  wave  of  my  hand  waiters  on 
the  lookout  on  the  other  side  drew  aside  the 
draperies,  revealing  a  long  table,  glistening 
with  silverware  and  cut  glass,  while  on  the 
walls  the  nymphs,  cherubs  and  angels  of  Gari- 
baldi looked  down.  The  scene  was  a  charming 
one. 

24 


"A  little  surprise  planned  for  our  distin- 
guished guests  by  Mr.  Gould/'  I  cried. 

"A  feast  arranged  for  goddesses,"  supple- 
mented Oakey  Hall,  with  a  low  semi-circular 
bow  that  included  all  the  women. 

By  this  time  they  were  not  loath  to  take 
supper  with  us.  In  great  good  humor,  with 
no  thought  of  precedent  or  jealousy,  our 
friends  found  places  and  the  supper  began. 
After  the  first  toast  to  the  long  life  and  happi- 
ness of  everybody  present,  we  were  in  a  little 
Arcady  with  the  world  and  its  cares  far  away. 

In  a  little  while  Brignoli,  the  tenor  of  the 
Nilsson  company,  who  had  been  pianist  to  the 
King  of  Italy  before  he  won  fame  as  a  singer, 
went  over  to  the  grand  piano  and  sang  us  some 
ballads  to  his  own  accompaniment.  Then  three 
or  four  of  the  clever  fellows  present  told  some 
good  stories. 

Then  Parepa-Rosa,  accompanied  on  the 
piano  by  Brignoli,  sang  with  all  the  dramatic 
unction  that  had  brought  her  wild  applause  on 
gala  nights  at  the  opera.  She  had  apparently 
entirely  forgotten  that  she  had  been  weary. 
She  was  followed  by  Christine  Nilsson,  with 
some  of  the  best  songs  from  her  operas.  She 
was  wonderful  that  night.  For  just  this  little 
company  she  sang  as  well,  or  even  better,  I 

25 


think,  than  she  was  wont  to  do  for  enthusiastic 
thousands.  Her  remarkable  voice,  clear  as  a 
bell,  yet  full  of  color  and  feeling,  thrilled  us, 
brought  moisture  to  our  eyes.  Now  and  then 
I  would  glance  at  Gould.  A  charming  woman 
was  on  either  side  of  him.  His  eyes  were  glow- 
ing. I  believe  it  was  one  of  the  rare  occasions 
when  he  really  forgot  his  burdens  and  was 
happy. 

Parepa-Rosa's  last  song  was  a  rollicking  one 
then  popular:  "At  Five  o'Clock  in  the  Morn- 
ing." I  am  afraid  that  the  clocks  would  have 
informed  us  that  it  was  not  far  from  that  hour 
when  we  aroused  the  drowsy  coachmen  wait- 
ing on  their  boxes  out  in  front  of  the  theater, 
and  went  rattling  home  through  the  silent 
streets.  My  troubles  of  the  early  evening 
seemed  remote,  a  memory  already  half-forgot- 
ten. I  could  not  help  thinking,  as  I  glanced  at 
the  darkened  houses,  that  the  dear  public, 
tucked  away  all  unsuspecting  in  their  beds, 
would  have  paid  thousands  to  have  attended  as 
good  a  concert  as  this  impromptu  one  behind 
the  scenes. 


26 


ANTON    RUBINSTEIN 


CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG 


P.    S.   GILMORE 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  CLASSIC  GERMAN  VERY  MAD. 

After  a  single  eventful  season  Jay  Gould  and 
Jim  Fisk  gave  up  theatrical  management.  The 
Erie  Railroad  offices  were  moved  from  the 
Grand  Opera  House,  and  it  was  leased  to 
Augustin  Daly,  I  remaining  as  his  treasurer. 

It  was  during  the  first  winter  of  Mr.  Daly's 
control  that  I  made  my  initial  essay  as  a  man- 
ager. 

Jacob  Grau,  who  had  given  me  my  start,  had 
died  suddenly,  and  my  friend  Maurice  Grau 
had  taken  over  a  contract  his  uncle  had  made 
with  the  famous  Russian  pianist,  Anton  Rubin- 
stein, for  a  series  of  concerts  in  this  country. 
The  musician  was  to  be  paid  a  sum  of  money 
which  for  those  days  was  exceedingly  large. 
It  was  a  big  undertaking  for  a  young  man  of 
not  more  than  twenty-four;  but  Rubinstein 
came,  and  under  the  management  of  young 
Grau  the  concerts  were  proving  a  great  suc- 
cess. One  evening  I  went  down  to  the  youth- 
ful manager's  house  on  Eleventh-st. 

"Maurice,"  I  remarked,  "what  shall  I  have 
to  pay  for  Rubinstein  for  six  Sunday  nights 
in  New- York?" 

29 


"A  thousand  dollars  a  night,"  answered 
Maurice  promptly. 

"I'll  go  you,"  I  replied,  and  then  and  there 
we  drew  up  an  agreement.  I  couldn't  sign  my 
name  to  that  brief  contract  quickly  enough,  for 
I  had  figured  that  the  pianist,  who  was  creating 
a  sensation,  would  draw  at  least  twenty-five 
hundred  dollars  a  concert,  and  perhaps  five 
hundred  or  a  thousand  more.  It  looked  like 
plain  sailing.  There  was,  however,  one  factor 
in  the  situation  that  I  overlooked.  I  forgot  to 
take  into  account  the  eccentricity  of  genius. 

Immediately  I  busied  myself  with  completing 
the  arrangements,  engaging  P.  S.  Gilmore's 
band  for  the  intervals  between  Rubinstein's 
solos.  For  the  first  concert  we  decided  to  give 
some  of  the  music  of  Johann  Strauss,  which 
was  light  but  charming,  and  was  much  in 
vogue.  The  great  night  came — a  fine  night, 
and  before  the  tired  box-office  man  was 
through  with  that  crowd  there  was  over  three 
thousand  dollars  in  the  house. 

I  was  in  a  state  of  exaltation,  and  yet  in  a 
fever  of  worry  too — Rubinstein  had  not  ar- 
rived. Where  was  he  ?  He  had  to  come  down 
from  Springfield,  Massachusetts,  and  while  I 
had  received  a  telegram  that  he  was  on  the  way 
I  pictured  all  kinds  of  accidents  and  delays  at 

30 


the  last  moment.  Finally,  however,  a  carriage 
rattled  up  to  the  stage  door,  where  I  was  wait- 
ing, and  the  celebrated  musician  bounded  out, 
an  active  man  in  a  big,  fur-lined  coat.  I  re- 
member that  he  had  penetrating  black  eyes  that 
looked  out  from  a  strong  but  homely  face. 

He  shook  hands  with  me  in  the  abstracted 
way  that  genius  has,  and  demanded  to  be  shown 
to  his  dressing-room  immediately.  Once  there, 
thinking  to  win  his  approval  and  occupy  him  till 
the  time  came  for  him  to  play,  I  handed  him  a 
program  of  the  concert.  He  glanced  at  it  in- 
differently for  an  instant,  and  then  jumped 
from  his  chair,  holding  the  paper  at  arms' 
length  and  glaring  at  it. 

"Vat  issdis?"  he  cried. 

"What  is  what?"  Tasked. 

"Your  beople  may  like  it,  monsieur.  They 
such  music  may  like,  maybe;  but  I,  Rubinstein, 
cannot  blay." 

"Why  not?"  I  inquired  as  calmly  as  possible. 

"Vhy  not !"  he  cried.  "Do  you  need  to  ask 
me  that,  monsieur  ?  Vat,  I,  Rubinstein,  on  the 
same  concert  blay  mit  this  Strauss,  this — this 
jingler?  Nevare!  nevare!"  He  kept  tapping 
the  offensive  name  of  Strauss  vehemently  with 
his  forefinger.  "I  vould  be  disgra-aced !"  he 

31 


burst  out  again.  "It  iss  an  insult !  From  here 
I  go!" 

With  an  impetuous  movement  my  star  seized 
his  hat  and  bolted  through  the  door.  I  stared 
after  him  for  an  instant,  paralyzed  with  aston- 
ishment. Then  I  started  in  pursuit.  He  made 
quick  time  down  the  passageway,  gained  the 
street,  leaped  into  his  carriage  and  slammed 
the  door. 

"Stop  that  carriage!  Stop  that  carriage !"  I 
shouted.  The  driver  heard  me  coming,  and 
was  hesitating  before  gathering  up  the  reins. 
I  reached  the  carriage  door,  and  jerked  it  open. 

"This  is  lunacy,  Rubinstein,"  I  cried,  breath- 
ing hard.  "I  have  thousands  of  dollars  in  the 
house.  We  can't  send  all  these  people  home. 
Come  into  my  office,  where  we  can  talk  this 
thing  over  like  sane  men." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"But  you  must  come/'  I  insisted. 

"Oh,  veil,  to  blease  you,"  he  exclaimed  sud- 
denly, with  a  gesture  of  resignation,  "but  not 
to  taug  aboud  it.  I  haf  my  determination  made 
up.  I  gannot  blay,"  was  all  he  would  say. 

When  I  got  him  up-stairs  I  said  with  all  the 
earnestness  in  my  power:  "Now  see  here, 
Herr  Rubinstein,  this  is  my  first  attempt  as  a 
manager.  If  you  fail  me  this  evening,  if  I 

32 


have  to  dismiss  this  great  audience  that  has 
gathered  here  to  hear  you  play,  I  shall  be 
ruined  financially  and  discredited  in  reputa- 
tion. I—" 

"Oh,  but  the  rebutation  of  me,  Rubinstein, 
you  forget,"  he  broke  in.  "Vat  aboud  me? 
Vat  aboud  my  friends,  the  great  musicians  in 
Europe,  saying:  'Oh,  Rubinstein  in  America 
forgets  everything  but  money.  He  vill  blay 
mit  a  jingler.  He  forgets  his  dignity,  his  art/ 
No,  no,  monsieur,  dollars  are  nothing  to  me, 
nothing.  I  live  for  my  art.  I  cannot  blay." 

"But  if  I  change  the  program,"  I  suggested 
quickly.  I  didn't  see  how  I  could  at  that  late 
hour;  but  I  was  clutching  at  straws.  Rubin- 
stein shrugged  his  shoulders.  "They  are  in 
the  hands  of  the  audience,"  he  remarked. 

"But  Til  get  them  back  again,"  I  announced. 
Without  waiting  for  his  reply,  I  ran  to  the 
door  and  called  for  the  head  usher.  I  gave  him 
an  order  to  send  all  the  men  he  could  through 
the  house  gathering  up  the  programs,  and  then 
to  set  these  men  all  at  work  crossing  out  the 
name  of  Strauss  and  the  selections  from  his 
music.  I  next  went  to  Pat  Gilmore,  whose 
band  was  to  have  played  the  Strauss  music, 
and  explained  the  situation  to  him. 

"So   Johann   Strauss   is   too   frivolous   for 

33 


him?"  Pat  remarked  smilingly.  "We  forgot 
that  he  was  a  musician  of  a  heroic  mold.  You 
would  never  have  suspected  it  from  this  little 
affair,  would  you?  Still  we  must  make  allow- 
ances for  genius.  Don't  worry  about  us,  Mor- 
rissey.  You  have  troubles  enough.  My  men 
have  nothing  except  the  program  music  with 
them,  but  we'll  pull  through  with  well-known 


airs." 


That  cheerful  speech  made  me  Pat  Gilmore's 
friend  for  life.  I  went  back  to  Rubinstein, 
fearing  that  he  would  escape  again.  I  asked 
him  what  he  thought  about  this  country  and 
its  music,  to  give  him  a  safety-valve  for  his 
surplus  spirit.  In  a  few  minutes  the  head  usher 
brought  me  a  pile  of  programs,  with  the  name 
of  the  hated  Strauss  crossed  out.  I  showed 
them  to  Rubinstein.  He  merely  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  Another  heap  of  programs  were 
soon  brought  in.  The  musician  glanced  at  them 
coldly.  When  a  third  lot  were  brought  in  and 
taken  away  to  be  again  distributed,  he  suddenly 
asked:  "Iss  dat  all?" 

"Well,  nearly  all,"  I  answered  hastily.  The 
truth  was  that  those  in  the  balcony  and  gallery 
had  not  been  touched,  but  I  did  not  feel  that  it 
was  necessary  to  mention  this. 

"Vel  den,  I  blay,  because  I  feel  ligk  id." 

34 


And  he  did  play — magnificently.  As  I  stood 
listening  to  that  wonderful  uplifting  music 
coming  from  his  favorite  Steinway,  it 
was  hard  for  me  to  realize  that  the  great  musi- 
cian who  was  producing  it  was  the  same  man 
who  a  few  minutes  before  had  stirred  up  such 
a  furious  little  tempest  in  a  tea-pot.  In  the 
following  concerts,  which  were  highly  success- 
ful, you  may  be  sure  that  the  program  suited 
Rubinstein. 


Of  a  vastly  different  type  was  the  next  musi- 
cal star  I  managed.  My  pen  fails  me 
when  I  try  to  pay  a  fitting  tribute  to  the  mem- 
ory of  Emma  Abbott.  She  was  a  most  admir- 
able artist,  but  her  nature  compassed  far  more 
than  her  art.  Her  voice  was  noble,  but  her 
character  was  nobler.  Her  heart  went  out  to 
all  who  suffered.  Many  times  I  have  seen  her 
eyes  fill  with  tears  at  the  mention  of  some  one's 
misfortune.  In  the  days  of  her  early  youth  she 
had  known  what  struggles  and  hardships  had 
meant  to  her,  and  she  never  forgot  what  they 
must  mean  to  others.  In  short,  she  was  one  of 
the  most  sincere,  kind-hearted  and  brave  little 
women  I  have  ever  known.  "Honest  little 
Emma/'  we  used  to  call  her. 

One  day  I   was  sitting  in  the  treasurer's 

35 


office  at  the  old  Fifth  Avenue  Theater,  which 
had  been  leased  to  Mr.  Daly  after  he  had  given 
up  the  Grand  Opera  House.  The  door  swung 
open,  and  in  walked  a  young  woman  with  big, 
earnest  eyes  of  an  azure  tint,  softly  rounded 
cheeks,  a  beautiful  complexion,  a  mass  of  light 
hair,  and  an  exceedingly  winning  smile. 

"You're  Mr.  Morrissey,  aren't  you?"  she 
said.  "Well,  I've  heard  about  you,  and  I've 
come  to  ask  you  to  be  my  manager.  Will  you  ?" 

For  a  moment  words  failed  me.  Never  be- 
fore had  an  important  proposal  been  put  to  me 
in  such  a  breezy,  off-hand  manner. 

"Why — why,  I  don't  know,  madam,"  I  stam- 
mered. "Pardon  me,  but  may  I  ask  your 
name?" 

"Oh,  of  course,"  she  laughed,  "I  forgot  to 
tell  you — just  like  me.  Why,  I'm  Emma  Ab- 
bott." 

In  her  mind  that  seemed  to  settle  it;  but  in 
mine  it  did  not.  The  truth  was,  I  was  raking 
my  brain  to  think  who  Emma  Abbott  was.  I 
had  heard  of  her,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I 
couldn't  place  her.  It  was  at  the  beginning  of 
her  career. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  I  exclaimed,  taking  the  small 
hand  which  she  had  held  out  impulsively.  "I'm 
delighted  to  meet  you,  Miss  Abbott ;  but  this  of 


course  is  an  important  question.  I'll  have  to 
think  it  over.  Could  you  come  in  again  to- 
morrow ?" 

"Why,  certainly  I  can." 

We  had  a  little  further  chat,  and  then,  smil- 
ing brightly,  she  bade  me  good-by,  remarking : 
"I'll  be  here  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Morrissey,  to 
complete  arrangements.  I'm  sure  we  can 
agree." 

I  immediately  consulted  Mr.  Daly.  "I  should 
like  to  keep  you  with  me,"  he  said,  "but  this  is 
so  fine  a  chance  for  you  that  I'll  release  you 
from  our  agreement.  I  know  of  the  girl;  she 
has  a  great  future.  By  all  means  make  a  con- 
tract with  her  if  you  can." 

So  when  Miss  Abbott  came  in  the  morning, 
we  drew  up  a  preliminary  agreement,  and  I 
began  a  new  epoch  in  our  career.  I  was  with 
Emma  Abbott  for  five  years — five  years  of 
much  profit  and  satisfaction  to  me,  and,  I  think, 
to  her. 

Everyone  of  the  first  days  of  my  association 
with  her  gave  me  a  new  impression  of  her 
charm  and  the  lovable  qualities  of  her  nature. 
By  degrees,  in  little  casual  conversations,  she 
unfolded  to  me  the  moving  story  of  the  strug- 
gles of  her  childhood. 

Even  when  she  was  so  small,  she  told  me,  she 

37 


was  peculiarly  susceptible  to  the  influence  of 
music.  Her  father  gave  lessons  on  the  piano 
in  Peoria,  Illinois,  where  the  family  lived. 
Once  he  journeyed  to  Chicago,  to  hear  a 
great  prima  donna,  and  when  he  returned  told 
Emma  how  the  beautiful  woman  had  stood  on 
the  stage  and  sung,  while  a  great  crowd 
cheered  and  threw  bouquets  to  her.  The  little 
girl  was  strangely  thrilled  by  the  description. 
Her  cheeks  became  flushed,  and  her  small 
bosom  heaved.  There  was  one  thing,  however, 
that  she  did  not  understand. 

"But,  papa,"  she  questioned,  "was  the  stage 
going?  If  it  was  I  should  think  she  would 
have  been  afraid  of  falling  off  if  she  stood  up. 

"I  know  a  little  more  about  the  stage  now," 
laughed  Miss  Abbott,  when  she  related  this 
story. 

The  music  lessons  of  the  elder  Abbott 
brought  such  small  returns  that  before  she  was 
twelve  little  Emma  felt  called  upon  to  add  to 
the  family  income.  Her  best  friend  in  those 
days  was  her  guitar.  She  was  always  playing 
it,  mingling  with  its  delicate  strains  the  appeal- 
ing, pathetic  notes  of  her  own  voice.  She 
had  appeared  with  her  father  at  some  country 
concerts,  and  with  this  experience  got  up  a 
concert  of  her  own  in  which  she  sang  twenty 

38 


songs  and  made  ten  dollars.  She  taught  one 
winter  at  a  country  school. 

When  she  returned  home  she  found  her  fam- 
ily in  desperate  straits.  It  was  necessary  to  do 
something,  so  Emma  literally  took  to  the  high- 
way with  her  guitar.  She  sang  from  town  to 
town,  traveling  most  of  the  time  alone.  Often 
she  suffered  from  cold  and  hunger.  She  was 
forced  to  pawn  her  few  trinkets,  and  on  one 
occasion  her  guitar.  In  need  of  food,  she  cut 
off  her  long  hair  and  sold  it.  And  yet  in  the 
trials  of  this  struggle  she  did  not  lose  her  cour- 
age, her  high  hope  of  the  future.  She  was  so 
eager  to  learn  and  advance  as  a  singer  that 
when  she  was  about  sixteen  she  played  her 
way  from  Illinois  to  New- York  to  hear  Parepa- 
Rosa,  and  then  did  not  hear  her,  because  the 
prima  donna,  ill  at  the  time,  was  not  singing. 

I  asked  her,  when  she  related  this  story, 
whether  she  dreamed,  a  little  wayfarer  in  New- 
York,  of  a  time  when  people  would  be  coming 
from  afar  to  hear  her  sing? 

"Oh,  I  did!  I  did!"  she  cried.  "It.  was  only 
my  dreams  that  kept  up  my  courage.  One 
night  in  the  winter  of  1870  in  Toledo  I  actually 
thought  of  suicide.  I  was  very  cold.  But  I 
played  a  little  on  my  guitar,  and  something  in 

39 


it  told  me  not  to  despair,  but  to  keep  on.    Soon 
afterward  came  my  great  stroke  of  fortune. 

"I  went  to  Detroit,  and  one  evening  asked 
the  manager  of  the  Russell  House  if  I  might 
sing  and  play  in  the  hotel  parlor,  and  take  up 
a  collection  afterward.  Some  managers  re- 
fused when  I  made  similar  requests,  but  this 
one  was  very  kind  and  gave  his  consent. 

"The  parlor  was  filled  with  people  who  had 
just  come  from  the  dining-room,  and  were  sit- 
ting around  chatting  and  reading.  I  always 
shrank  from  the  ordeal  of  interrupting  people 
in  hotel  parlors  with  my  music,  but  my  bread 
and  butter  depended  upon  my  doing  it.  This 
time  they  listened  attentively,  applauded,  and 
were  quite  liberal  with  their  contributions. 
One  woman,  who  was  very  handsome,  looked 
at  me  keenly  as  she  dropped  a  coin  into  my 
hand,  and  said  in  a  low  voice :  When  you  get 
through,  my  child,  I  want  to  speak  to  you/ 

"I  returned  to  her  in  a  few  minutes.  'Sit 
down  in  that  chair/  she  commanded.  'Draw 
it  up  close.  And  now,  my  dear,  I  want  to  ask 
you  why  you  are  doing  this  thing  ?  Don't  you 
know,  don't  your  relatives  know,  if  you  have 
any,  that  you  have  a  voice — a  beautiful  voice  ? 
You've  astonished  me  this  evening.  With 
training  you  can  rise  far  above  this.  I  believe, 

40 


yes  I  believe,  my  girl,  that  under  the  right  in- 
struction, you  can  become  a  great  singer,  a 
prima  donna/ 

"I  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  This 
woman,  a  stranger  to  me,  was  putting  into 
words  thoughts  and  longings  which  I  had 
hardly  dared  acknowledge  even  to  myself.  She 
spoke  very  gently. 

"  'You  are  thin  and  pale,  my  child.  You  are 
having  a  hard,  hard  time,  I  know/  She  asked 
me  questions,  and  I  poured  into  her  ears  my 
whole  history.  She  became  silent  for  several 
minutes,  and  then  exclaimed  suddenly :  'I  can't 
let  you  go  on  like  this ;  you  must  come  to  New- 
York  with  me.  We  shall  find  a  way  to  have 
that  voice  developed.  My  name  is  Kellogg — 
Clara  Louise  Kellogg.  Will  you  come  ?' 

"Why  my  pillow  was  wet  with  tears  that 
night  I  won't  attempt  to  say,  because  it  seemed 
that  a  new  and  glorious  world  had  been  opened 
to  me." 

Within  a  few  weeks  Emma  was  in  New- 
York  again ;  but  she  was  no  longer  the  forlorn 
little  wanderer  who  had  made  the  weary  and 
fruitless  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  Parepa- 
Rosa.  Her  best  friend  now  was  a  noted  singer 
who  was  using  her  prestige  and  influence  in 
her  behalf.  Clara  Louise  Kellogg  let  slip  no 

41 


chance  to  advance  the  interests  of  little  Emma. 
Shortly  after  their  arrival  in  the  metropolis 
the  prima  donna  was  invited  to  spend  an  even- 
ing at  the  house  of  August  Belmont. 

"You  come,  too,  Emma,"  she  said.  "You've 
received  no  invitation  only  because  they  don't 
know  you.  They  will  be  glad  to,  I  am  very 
sure.  It  will  be  all  right.  You  must  come." 

They  did  not  go  to  the  Belmont  house  to- 
gether. Emma's  sponsor  arrived  first,  to  pave 
the  way,  in  a  measure,  for  her  young  friend. 
It  was  after  nine  when  the  latter  reached  the 
house.  Most  of  the  distinguished  company  had 
assembled.  The  night  was  wet  and  windy,  but 
Emma  had  walked.  When  the  stately  butler 
had  opened  the  door  for  her,  the  bottom  of  her 
skirt  was  splashed  with  mud  and  water;  her 
umbrella  was  dripping;  the  feathers  in  her  hat 
were  drooping.  Many  curious  eyes  were 
turned  in  her  direction  from  the  crowded  par- 
lors. She  presented  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
other  women,  beautifully  attired  in  evening 
gowns.  Some  of  them  laughed.  Miss  Kellogg 
hurried  to  her,  and  Emma,  when  she  saw  her 
friend,  cried  out  in  sheer  relief : 

"Here  I  am!  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you.  I've 
had  an  awful  time  wading  through  the  pud- 
dles." 

42 


Her  voice  was  pitched  much  above  the  even 
tones  of  that  assemblage.  There  was  a  sub- 
dued titter;  everybody  smiled;  but  they  were 
not  all  derisive  smiles.  There  were  some  who 
saw  that  here  was  an  impulsive  little  Western 
girl  with  a  naturalness  and  spontaneity  that 
had  not  been  shriveled  up  by  conventional  so- 
ciety. Emma  was  conscious  of  how  different 
she  was  in  dress  and  manner  from  the  others ; 
but  the  discerning  ones,  who  liked  her  at  first 
sight,  spoke  kindly  to  her.  They  relieved  her 
of  embarrassment,  just  as  she  rescued  them 
from  boredom.  When  she  sang  for  them,  their 
liking  grew  to  admiration. 

Horace  Greely  was  one  of  her  most  attentive 
listeners,  and  his  solemn  face  lighted  up  with 
interest  when  she  talked  to  him.  She  made  of 
the  great  editor  a  lifelong  friend  that  night. 
It  was  he  who  soon  afterward  did  much  to  help 
her  obtain  a  position  as  soprano  in  Dr.  Chapin's 
church;  and  it  was  he  who  was  chiefly  instru- 
mental in  raising  a  sum  of  money  to  send  her 
abroad  for  the  training  of  her  voice.  I  learned 
all  this  through  Clara  Louise  Kellogg.  She  cer- 
tainly had  no  reason  to  regret  making  Emma 
Abbott  her  protege,  nor  introducing  her  into 
society,  even  if  those  first  moments  at  the  Bel- 
monts'  were  somewhat  trying. 

43 


But  there  were  black  days  yet  in  store  for 
Emma.  With  such  exhausting  zeal  and  appli- 
cation did  she  work  in  Europe  that  she  woke 
up  one  morning  to  find  that  her  voice  was  gone. 
She  thought  at  first  that  it  was  only  a  tem- 
porary disability,  but  weeks,  months,  dragged 
on,  and  still  she  could  not  sing.  She  consulted 
specialists,  who  gave  her  little  help,  but  took 
her  money.  At  last  her  funds  became  ex- 
hausted. 

"I  knew  that  a  single  letter  to  New- York 
would  have  filled  my  pocket-book  again," 
Emma  told  me ;  "but  somehow  the  very  willing- 
ness of  my  friends  to  aid  me,  the  very  ease  with 
which  I  could  have  procured  money  from  them, 
caused  my  mind  to  recoil  from  the  thought  of 
asking.  The  truth  was  I  was  beginning  to 
cease  to  care  whether  I  had  money  or  not,  or 
to  care  what  became  of  me.  My  hopes  were  in 
ashes.  I  grew  afraid  to  look  toward  my  future, 
because  I  could  see  there  nothing  except  a 
blank  curtain  of  dispair.  With  my  voice  gone, 
I  felt  like  a  useless  incumberer  of  the  earth, 
and  again,  as  in  that  bitter  winter  in  Toledo, 
I  thought  of  ending  struggles  that  seemed  too 
much  for  me. 

"But  I  still  played  my  guitar — a  loyal  little 
friend.  It  would  whisper  to  me  happy  recol- 

44 


lections  of  other  days.  There  seemed  to  be 
gentle  sympathy  in  its  tones,  and  it  told  me,  as 
it  had  done  before,  to  keep  up  my  courage. 

"One  morning,  when  Paris  was  sparkling 
in  mellow  sunlight,  and  birds  in  back  windows 
opposite  mine  were  pouring  out  melodies,  the 
voice  in  the  guitar  seemed  to  rise  to  exultant 
notes,  and  as  easily  and  gently  as  a  baby  opens 
its  eyes  from  sleep  I  began  to  sing — to  sing, 
mind  you! — and  as  well  as  ever.  I  laughed; 
I  cried ;  I  danced  about  the  room.  Winter  had 
passed;  spring  had  come.  My  hopes  and  am- 
bitions were  again  in  blossom. 

"So  high  were  my  spirits  now  that  I  ac- 
cepted as  a  matter  of  course,  as  quite  in  the 
order  of  things,  an  offer  of  Baroness  Solomon 
de  Rothschild  to  lend  me  several  thousand 
francs.  I  knew  I  could  pay  her  back.  Once 
more  I  began  to  practise,  but  not,  you  may  be 
sure,  so  intemperately  as  before.  I  knew  better 
now  than  to  let  excessive  zeal  wear  out  my 
body  and  voice." 

It  was  soon  after  Miss  Abbott  returned  to 
America  that  she  engaged  me  as  her  manager. 
When  we  opened  in  New- York  her  singing 
and  her  winsome  personality  became  the  talk 
of  the  town.  She  was  busy,  much  absorbed  in 
her  work,  but  she  still  had  time  to  think  of  the 

45 


misfortunes  of  others.     She  came  to  me  one 
morning  in  a  flutter  of  excitement. 

"I've  been  reading  all  about  that  murder 
case  in  Jersey  City,"  she  exclaimed,  "and  I 
think  the  woman  should  be  set  free.  She's 
been  convicted,  I  know;  but  they  said  that  if 
she  had  a  thousand  dollars  to  pay  the  expenses 
of  an  appeal  she  would  probably  get  a  new 
trial  and  be  acquitted.  I've  made  up  my  mind 
to  raise  the  money  for  her." 

She  paused  and  looked  at  me  half-defiantly. 

"Go  on,"  I  said  in  an  even  voice.  I  was  not 
surprised.  I  was  getting  used  to  Emma. 

"Well,  I  want  you  to  help  me.  I'm  going  to 
start  a  subscription  list  with  a  hundred  dollars, 
and  I  want  you  to  come  down  town  with  me 
to  help  me  raise  the  rest.  My  carriage  is  wait- 
ing. I  want  to  go  now.  I  simply  can't  have 
any  peace  till  this  is  off  my  mind." 

"My  dear  Miss  Abbott,"  I  protested,  "don't 
you  know  how  the  public  and  newspapers  will 
regard  such  an  act?  They  will  say  that  it  is 
a  mere  advertising  scheme.  They  will  accuse 
you  of  making  use  of  a  murder  case  to  exploit 
yourself.  Besides,  I  believe  it  was  a  premedi- 
tated murder." 

"It  wasn't !  It  wasn't !"  cried  Emma.  Even 
if  she  did  kill  him,  she  didn't  mean  to.  You 

46 


can't  look  at  it  through  a  woman's  eyes.  I 
see  it  all,  and  I  am  going  to  save  her  if  I  can. 
As  for  the  newspapers,  what  do  I  care  what 
they  say?  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  let  them 
stand  in  my  way  in  a  case  like  this  ?  Will  you 
come  with  me,  or  shall  I  go  alone?" 

I  had  no  relish  for  the  business ;  but  in  five 
minutes,  in  her  closed  carriage,  Emma  and  I 
were  on  our  way  down  town  to  beard  the  finan- 
ciers. We  stopped  first  at  Judge  Hilton's  office. 
Emma's  presence  transformed  the  place.  As 
she  enthusiastically  and  with  great  earnestness 
explained  her  mission  to  the  Judge,  she  was 
irresistible.  He  reached  for  his  check-book. 

"Did  you  say  you  wanted  me  to  subscribe  a 
thousand?"  he  asked,  with  his  pen  in  the  air. 

"Oh,  no,"  laughed  Emma.  "I  talk  so  rapidly 
you  haven't  quite  understood.  It's  very  fine 
of  you  to  be  willing  to  give  a  thousand  dollars, 
but  I  want  you  to  subscribe  only  a  hundred. 
You  are  not  the  only  kind-hearted  man  in  New- 
York,  I  hope." 

The  Judge  laughed  and  wrote  the  check. 
Emma  folded  it  and  put  it  in  her  pocket-book, 
overflowing  with  thanks  and  gratitude.  The 
Judge  followed  us  to  the  door,  telling  us  re- 
peatedly what  pleasure  our  call  had  given  him. 

47 


I  saw  that  it  was  going  to  be  easy  to  procure 
that  thousand  dollars. 

We  called  on  Jay  Gould,  J.  Pierpont  Morgan, 
Eugene  Kelly,  John  D.  Townsend  (who  was 
my  lawyer), Charles  Delmonico  and  others, and 
after  each  visit  Emma  had  another  check 
tucked  away  in  her  pocket-book.  She  was  in 
high  feather.  By  noon  we  had  the  money  and 
returned  up  town  for  luncheon,  in  the  course  of 
which  my  prima  donna  talked  of  nothing  except 
the  generosity  and  charming  qualities  of  those 
men  of  wealth. 

The  thought  occurred  to  me  at  the  time,  and 
often  since,  when  I  think  of  little  Emma,  that 
we  get  from  this  world  what  we  give  it. 

I  sent  the  money  with  the  compliments  of 
Emma  Abbott,  to  Dr.  Rice,  the  pastor  of  Grace 
Church,  Jersey  City,  who  was  interesting  him- 
self in  behalf  of  the  unfortunate  woman.  An 
appeal  was  made,  a  new  trial  ordered,  and  she 
was  finally  released. 


48 


EMMA    ABBOTT 


CHAPTER  III. 

HEROES  OF  THE  U.  S.  ARMY  AT  PLAY. 

It  was  not  Emma  Abbott's  fault  that  the 
episode  of  her  raising  the  thousand  dollars  for 
the  woman  accused  of  murder  became  known 
to  the  newspapers.  She  begged  me  to  say 
nothing  about  it,  but  it  is  hard  for  a  theatrical 
manager  to  keep  such  a  good  story  about  his 
star  from  the  ears  of  the  great  dailies. 

Contrary  to  what  I  had  told  Miss  Abbott 
about  the  likelihood  of  her  motives  being  mis- 
understood, I  decided  that  the  public,  which 
was  beginning  to  get  an  inkling  of  the  ingen- 
uousness of  her  nature,  would  not  misinterpret 
the  act  as  one  of  self-advertising.  So  the  talk 
leaked  out,  and  nearly  every  daily  in  the  coun- 
try commented  upon  it.  Miss  Abbott  was,  of 
course,  far  above  the  need  of  anything  foreign 
to  her  art  for  arousing  public  interest;  but  it 
is  true  that  after  this  incident  our  box-office 
receipts,  already  heavy,  swelled  perceptibly. 

We  were  on  tour,  and  were  spending  Sun- 
day in  Nashville,  Tennessee.  Emma  never 
missed  an  opportunity  to  go  to  church.  She 
started  out  this  Sunday  morning,  her  prayer- 
book  in  her  hand. 

At  about  twelve  o'clock. she  returned  to  the 

51 


hotel,  flushed,  tearful  and  bursting  with  indig- 
nation. "Oh,  it  was  outrageous!"  she  cried. 
"I  didn't  know  that  there  could  be  such  a  man 
in  the  garb  of  a  minister.  But  I  gave  him  a 
setting  down  that  I  think  he'll  remember !" 

"What  is  it,  Emma,  what  is  it?"  we  de- 
manded, burning  with  curiosity. 

"I  spoke  out,"  she  went  on  excitedly,  "and 
he  became  so  confused  he  couldn't  finish.  I 
hope  he's  learned  a  lesson !" 

By  degrees  we  got  the  story.  It  seems  that 
the  preacher  had  thought  the  Sunday  morning, 
after  a  great  audience  of  his  fellow-towns- 
people had  been  inspired  by  one  of  the  sweetest 
singers  and  some  of  the  sweetest  music  in  the 
world,  a  fitting  occasion  to  deliver  a  tirade 
against  the  stage. 

He  denounced  its  people  as  possessing  no 
vestige  of  religion  or  morality.  This  was 
more  than  Emma  had  been  able  to  stand. 
She  had  risen  in  her  seat,  and  had  cried 
out  a  protest.  I  can  well  imagine  her  as  she 
stood  there — her  head  held  high  with  pride, 
and  her  tongue  uttering  in  that  ringing,  stir- 
ring voice  of  hers  words  that  were  far  more 
lofty  in  spirit,  more  honest  and  more  eloquent 
than  any  apparently  at  the  command  of  this 
preacher. 

52 


She  announced  that  she  was  Emma  Abbott, 
and  declared  that  she  and  many  other  women 
on  the  stage  held  themselves  as  high  and  were 
as  irreproachable  as  any  wife  in  that  congre- 
gation. She  said  further  that  a  man  who 
would  sweepingly  condemn  on  the  merest  hear- 
say women  who  toiled  and  struggled  was  un- 
worthy of  the  name  of  clergyman. 

The  congregation,  I  learned,  sat  in  a  death- 
like silence  during  this  astonishing  outburst. 
The  preacher  had  vainly  tried  to  quiet  Emma 
by  stretching  out  his  hand  in  a  majestic 
gesture  of  command.  When  she  had  resumed 
her  seat  and  he  attempted  to  take  up  the  broken 
thread  of  his  discourse,  he  stammered,  stopped 
and  gave  out  a  hymn  to  conceal  his  confusion. 

This  was  simply  one  of  many  brave  acts  of 
Emma's  life ;  but  she  was  in  the  limelight  now, 
and  the  papers  of  the  country  took  up  the  story, 
just  as  they  had  the  episode  of  the  fund.  Emma 
did  not  like  it  at  all.  She  always  read  with 
eagerness  comments  on  her  work,  but  she  had 
an  idea  that  all  this  talk  about  her  personal 
traits  and  actions  was  unfeeling  and  pre- 
sumptuous. It  annoyed  and  grieved  her,  but 
I  must  say  that  I,  as  her  manager,  did  not 
grieve.  These  things  were  causing  her  person- 
ality to  loom  large  in  the  public  eye.  People 

53 


were  flocking  to  the  theater  not  only  to  hear 
the  singer,  but  to  see  the  woman,  which  of 
course  was  a  most  excellent  thing  for  business. 
Everywhere  we  had  to  turn  people  away; 
everywhere  Emma  had  admirers. 


When  it  was  announced  that  we  were  to  fill 
an  engagement  in  Washington,  some  of  her 
friends  there  decided  to  serenade  her.  The 
plan  was  to  have  the  Marine  Band,  then  under 
the  leadership  of  John  Philip  Sousa,  play  be- 
neath the  balcony  of  the  Arlington  Hotel, 
where  we  were  stopping,  at  midnight  after  our 
first  performance.  The  project  was  mentioned 
to  me  of  course,  and  I  mentioned  it  to  Emma. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  exclaimed.  "I'm  afraid  it 
will  be  very  embarrassing  for  me.  They  cer- 
tainly ought  to  be  thanked  for  their  trouble, 
and  yet  I  can't  make  a  speech.  I  wish  I  could 
think  of  somebody  who  would  do  it  for  me — 
somebody  whom  they  all  know." 

Emma  pondered  a  moment,  tapping  her  little 
foot  on  the  carpet.  Suddenly  her  face  light- 
ened. "I  wonder  if  General  Sherman  wouldn't 
do  it." 

I  gazed  at  my  star  a  moment  in  mute  admir- 
ation, and  then  burst  out:  "Miss  Abbott,  in 
the  art  of  publicity  you're  a  genius — a  positive 

54 


genius.  Do  you  know  what  a  speech  of  thanks 
from  General  William  T.  Sherman  would  do 
for  us?  Why,  it  would  give  us  big  head-lines 
in  a  thousand  newspapers.  The  General  is  the 
head  of  the  army.  The  affair  would  become  a 
national  event." 

"Don't  ask  him  then,  please  don't,  Mr. 
Morrissey !"  she  implored  me.  "I  wouldn't  for 
the  world  have  him  think  that  I  was  making 
such  a  use  of  his  friendship  for  me." 

I  at  once  realized  my  mistake  in  mentioning 
the  advertising  feature  of  her  suggestion.  I 
reasoned  with  her,  laying  much  emphasis  upon 
the  fact  that  into  her  mind  at  least  the  thought 
of  making  capital  of  the  General  had  never 
entered. 

"No,  no,  you  can't  stop  me  now!"  I  ex- 
claimed at  last.  "My  enthusiasm  is  aroused. 
I'm  going  to  ask  him  at  once." 

With  this  I  rushed  away,  giving  her  no  time 
for  further  protests. 

"So  Emma  Abbott  wants  me  to  respond  to 
the  serenaders  for  her,"  laughed  the  General, 
when  I  had  laid  the  plan  before  him.  He  mused 
for  a  moment,  his  strong  features  softened  in 
a  kindly  smile. 

"Well,  you  tell  her,"  he  exclaimed,  swinging 
around  in  his  chair,  "that  I  am  hers  to  com- 

55 


mand  always.  Tell  her  that  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted. Between  you  and  me,  Mr.  Morrissey, 
I  think  the  world  of  honest  little  Emma." 

It  was  a  busy  day  for  me.  I  hurried  to  the 
offices  of  some  other  army  officers  whom  I 
knew,  and  to  some  of  the  legations,  with  in- 
vitations to  the  dignitaries  and  their  wives  or 
sweethearts  to  be  present  at  the  opera,  on  the 
balcony  of  the  hotel,  and  at  a  little  supper  after- 
ward. When  I  mentioned  the  name  of  General 
Sherman  hesitation  disappeared.  All,  except 
one  or  two  who  had  important  engagements 
for  that  night,  accepted  with  alacrity. 

Most  of  them,  including  General  Sherman, 
came  in  uniform.  I  surveyed  them  with  great 
satisfaction  as  they  gathered  in  the  boxes. 
They  were  a  gorgeous  spectacle.  Afterward, 
in  one  of  the  hotel  parlors  which  had  been  set 
aside  for  this  purpose,  Emma  received  them. 
She  was  sparkling  with  animation;  she  radi- 
ated magnetism.  There  were  some  handsome 
women  in  that  company,  but  Emma,  not  beau- 
tiful in  the  conventional  sense,  outshone  them 
all.  "A  star,  indeed !"  I  commented  to  myself. 

Suddenly  from  the  street  in  front,  where 
policemen  were  shouting  orders  and  there  was 
the  continual  murmur  and  movement  of  a  great 
crowd,  came  strains  of  sonorous  music. 

56 


"It's  the  serenade!"  cried  Emma.  Instantly 
we  all  ceased  talking.  Sousa  was  playing  a 
popular  air  from  "Martha."  After  a  moment 
of  listening  Emma  gaily  thrilled  a  few  notes, 
moving  her  head  in  time  with  the  music.  "Oh, 
that  such  honor  should  be  thrust  upon  me!" 
she  suddenly  exclaimed  laughingly. 

We  all  began  to  chatter  again.  When  the 
band  was  nearing  the  end  of  the  selection  Gen- 
eral Sherman  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
military  height,  assumed  a  look  and  tone  of 
stern  command  and  called  out : 

"Attention,  company!  Fall  in  line!  For- 
ward march — to  the  front !"  At  the  same  time 
he  extended  his  arm  to  Emma,  bending  over, 
because  he  was  so  tall  and  she  so  small,  and 
saying:  "I  stoop  to  conquer."  Amid  a  great 
deal  of  laughter  we  filed  out  on  the  balcony. 

This  serenade  had  been  well  heralded.  Al- 
most as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  on  either 
side  the  street  was  massed  with  people.  We 
were  looking  down  upon  twenty  thousand  up- 
turned faces.  Emma,  accustomed  as  she  was 
to  crowds,  shrank  closer  to  the  General.  She 
looked  a  fragile  little  thing  beside  his  tall  form, 
and  her  evening  gown  contrasted  oddly  but 
most  effectively  with  his  resplendent  uniform. 

"Art  and  military  glory  receiving  the  hom- 

57 


age  of  the  multitude/'  whispered  a  quick- 
witted young  officer. 

As  they  advanced  to  the  rail  of  the  balcony 
a  mighty  shout  arose.  At  first  it  completely 
drowned  the  music  of  the  band,  and  then  for 
five  minutes  the  musicians,  who  were  playing 
madly,  evidently  determined  that  their  efforts 
should  be  heard,  sent  forth  notes  that  were 
tossed  and  tumbled  and  smothered  in  that  wild 
sea  of  cheering.  It  was  pandemonium,  but  it 
stirred  the  blood.  Emma's  face  was  glowing 
and  her  bosom  heaving.  At  last  General  Sher- 
man stretched  forth  his  arm,  and  almost  in- 
stantly there  was  silence. 

"Members  of  the  band  and  ladies  and  gentle- 
men," he  called  out  in  a  voice  that  carried  far, 
"in  behalf  of  Miss  Emma  Abbott  I  thank  you 
most  heartily  for  this  great  demonstration." 

That  was  all,  but  it  was  enough  to  start  anew 
the  tumultuous  cheering.  The  musicians,  how- 
ever, were  not  to  be  denied.  They  played  until 
the  shouting  thousands  had  become  silent 
listeners,  and  there  was  no  sound  except  the 
music  swelling  triumphantly  on  the  night  air. 

Emma  no  longer  shrank  by  the  General's 
side.  She  stood  forth  alone,  radiant.  She 
leaned  slightly  over  the  balcony.  A  scarcely 
perceptible  but  general  motion  went  through 

58 


the  crowd — they  were  moving  up.  Intuitively 
I  understood.  Emma  meant  to  sing.  In  an  in- 
stant I  was  at  her  side. 

"No,  no,  Emma,  you  must  not.  Your  voice 
can't  stand  it.  If  you  do  there'll  be  no  opera 
to-eiorrow  night." 

She  turned  to  me  quickly  with  a  defiant  look. 

"You  must  not  do  it,  Emma!"  I  repeated. 
She  slightly  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  turn- 
ing to  the  crowd  again,  shook  her  head  and 
once  more  glanced  reproachfully  at  me.  I 
smiled  and  slightly  bowed  to  acknowledge  the 
responsibility  of  the  refusal;  then  took  her 
gently  by  the  arm  and  drew  her  light  wrap 
more  closely  around  her  to  indicate  that  our 
prima  donna  had  been  long  enough  in  the 
night  air. 

The  crowd  burst  into  another  cheer,  in  the 
midst  of  which  Emma  backed  off  the  balcony, 
smiling  and  bowing  and  throwing  kisses  every- 
where. We  then  sat  down  to  a  merry  supper. ' 

Never  before  in  the  history  of  the  National 
Theater  had  such  crowds  flocked  there  as  dur- 
ing the  two  weeks  of  our  engagement.  The 
serenade  made  much  money  for  us,  but  it  was 
never  of  the  money  that  Emma  thought  when 
she  recalled  it.  Often  afterward  she  spoke  of 
it  to  me. 

59 


"It  was  a  wonderful  night,  wasn't  it,  Mr. 
Morrissey?"  she  would  say,  "and  just  think,  it 
was  not  so  very  long  ago  that  I  sang  in  the 
street  for  pennies." 


During  the  same  season  we  came  into  a 
pleasant  and  amusing  contact  with  another 
military  hero.  In  the  lobby  of  the  Palmer 
House  in  Chicago  one  night  just  after  the  opera 
I  happened  to  encounter  General  "Phil"  Sheri- 
dan. I  knew  him  well,  so  I  held  out  my  hand, 
exclaiming : 

"Why,  General,  where  are  you  going  in  such 
a  hurry?" 

"Well,  it's  true  that  I'm  in  something  of  a 
hurry,  Morrissey,"  he  answered.  "You  see,  my 
wife  is  up-stairs  waiting  for  me.  She  thinks 
I've  been  keeping  rather  late  hours  recently 
and  that  it's  high  time  I  was  in  bed." 

"You  don't  look  sleepy,  General,"  I  laughed, 
"I  wish  you  could  join  us.  Miss  Abbott  is  here 
giving  a  little  supper  to  a  few  friends.  I  should 
like  very  much  to  have  you  meet  her." 

The  General  cast  a  glance  toward  the 
elevator.  "How — how  soon  could  I  get  away, 
Morrissey?"  he  inquired  earnestly. 

"As  soon  as  you  like,"  I  replied. 

At  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  just 

60 


when  the  General  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his 
best  stories,  and  our  guests,  bursting  with 
laughter,  were  hanging  on  his  words,  a  waiter 
touched  me  on  the  shoulder  and  handed  me  a 
visiting  card.  On  it  I  read:  "Mrs;  Philip 
Sheridan." 

"A  little  question  of  business — I'll  be  back  in 
a  minute,"  I  exclaimed  as  cheerfully  as  possible, 
as  I  hastily  rose.  I  smoothed  down  my  vest 
and  braced  myself  as  I  passed  through  the  door. 
Mrs.  Sheridan  was  waiting  for  me.  I  usually 
talk  fast,  but  I  think  I  outdid  myself  on  that 
occasion. 

"I  took  the  General  in  for  only  a  moment, 
Mrs.  Sheridan.  He  said  he  couldn't  possibly 
stay  for  more  than  a  moment,  but  once  there 
they  simply  wouldn't  let  him  get  away.  He 
tried  hard  enough,  I  assure  you.  Miss  Abbott 
and  the  others  are  delighted  with  him.  Can't 
you  let  him  stay  for  just  an  hour  longer  ?" 

Mrs.  Sheridan  reluctantly  gave  her  consent. 
I  forgot  to  mention  it  to  the  General,  and  am 
afraid  that  it  was  not  far  from  the  time  when 
Romeo  would  have  said:  "Night's  candles 
are  burnt  out,"  when  the  General  went  up- 
stairs to  bed. 

In  my  chronicles  of  Emma  Abbott  it  would 
never  do  to  omit  a  delicate  subject  which 

61 


aroused  wide-spread  curiosity  and  contro- 
versy :  namely,  the  Abbott  kiss. 

At  the  climax  of  the  third  act  of  the  opera, 
"Paul  and  Virginia/'  Virginia  flies  to  Paul's 
arms,  it  will  be  remembered,  and  kisses  him 
with  great  fervor.  This  episode  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  effectiveness  of  the  scene. 
There  is  nothing  vulgar  about  it.  What  is 
more  natural  than  that  two  young  people  who 
are  fond  of  each  other  should,  after  a  clearing 
away  of  the  clouds  of  misunderstanding,  cele- 
brate the  return  of  sunshine  of  love  with  a 
fervent  kiss. 

We  first  put  the  opera  on  in  Louisville,  and 
when  the  kiss  came  the  good  people  of  the  Ken- 
tucky city  held  their  breath.  In  the  interval 
between  the  third  and  fourth  acts  I  had  many 
comments  on  it — numerous  expressions  of 
astonishment  that  Emma  Abbott,  of  all  per- 
sons, should  do  such  a  thing. 

In  "The  Courier  Journal"  the  next  morning, 
lo  and  behold!  there  was  a  long  editorial, 
penned  by  Col.  Watterson  himself,  as  I  after- 
ward learned,  on  that  kiss.  Was  it  right? 
Was  it  proper  ?  What  was  Emma  Abbott,  who 
stood  for  the  best  on  the  stage,  thinking  of? 
Other  newspapers,  some  gravely  and  some 
facetiously,  took  up  the  problem  of  the  kiss. 


It  was  all  well  enough  to  defend  the  scene  in  the 
name  of  art,  the  solemn  ones  contended;  but 
what  possessed  Emma  Abbott  to  stretch  her 
art  so  far? 

She  herself,  dismayed  and  surprised  at  all 
this  talk,  wanted  to  leave  out  the  kiss,  but  I 
took  a  stand  against  any  such  concession  to  the 
over-responsive  sensibility  of  the  public. 

"You  know  it's  all  right,  and  we  know  it's 
all  right,"  I  said.  "Evil  to  them  who  evil 
think.  Let  them  argue  it  out  among  them- 
selves." 

Emma's  husband,  who  happened  to  be  with 
the  company  at  the  time,  indorsed  my  views,  so 
the  scene  was  kept  as  it  was.  Just  before  the 
climax  of  the  third  act  there  would  be  a  flutter 
of  anticipation  in  the  house — a  leaning  for- 
ward, an  added  intensity  of  attention,  while 
from  almost  every  seat  opera-glasses  would  be 
leveled  at  the  lovers. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  it  seemed  like  a 
real  kiss,  even  under  the  closest  scrutiny  with 
the  glasses.  Nearly  everybody  thought  it  was, 
and  I  never  took  the  trouble  to  disabuse  them 
of  this  idea.  Never  until  now  have  I  explained 
the  true  inwardness  of  that  osculation. 

The  truth  is  that  it  was  the  merest  imitation 
of  a  kiss.  We  arranged  all  that  at  the  rehear- 

63 


sals.  None  of  us  thought  of  expecting  Emma 
Abbott  to  really  kiss  the  tenor.  We  were  in 
something  of  a  quandary  as  to  how  to  get  the 
most  out  of  the  scene,  until  we  noticed  the 
dimple  on  his  chin.  Emma  simply  pressed  her 
lips  on  the  dimple.  This  was  all  there  was  to 
the  famous  Abbott  kiss. 


64 


SIR    CHARLES   WYNDHAM 


CHAPTER  IV. 

DIPLOMACY  AND  ART  AT  A  BANQUET. 

The  pastor  of  St.  Cecelia's  Church,  located 
in  Harlem,  New- York,  came  down  to  my  office 
at  the  Broadway  Theater,  now  Daly's,  one 
morning  in  an  uneasy  frame  of  mind. 

"Morrissey,"  he  explained,  "mine,  you  know, 
is  a  young  parish.  We  have  had  building  and 
furnishing  expenses  to  meet,  and  my  people, 
who  are  mostly  quite  poor,  have  responded  so 
liberally  that  I  now  shrink  from  asking  them 
for  another  cent.  Yet  I  must  have  at  once  two 
thousand  dollars.  The  firm  from  which  we 
bought  our  organ  wrote  me  a  polite  letter 
yesterday  to  the  effect  that  unless  we  immedi- 
ately made  a  substantial  payment  they  would 
be  compelled  to  remove  the  instrument.  We 
couldn't  possibly  get  along  without  our  music. 
Now,  I  didn't  come  in  this  morning  to  ask  you 
for  money,  but  for  your  kind  offices  in  our  be- 
half. It  has  occured  to  me  that  there  must  be 
musicians  who  would  be  willing  to  rally  to  the 
support  of  music,  so  to  speak.  Could  not  you 
get  us  up  a  concert  to  save  the  organ  ? 

A  concert!  Without  any  machinery  at  my 
command  for  the  turning  out  of  concerts,  and 

67 


with  the  participants  expected  to  appear  gratui- 
tously, I  well  knew  the  mental  wear  and  tear 
that  the  management  of  a  concert  would  in- 
volve. As  business  manager  for  J.  C.  Duff  I 
already  had  numerous  perplexities  on  my  mind. 
Yet  the  father's  request  was  reasonable 
enough.  It  was  fitting,  as  he  had  said,  that 
singers,  who  have  so  often  been  carried  to  vocal 
triumphs  on  the  swelling  tide  of  organ  music, 
should  come  to  the  rescue  of  an  organ  in  dis- 
tress. I  felt  that  I  should  have  to  undertake 
this  concert,  but  was  hesitating  before  com- 
mitting myself  to  the  labor  of  it  when  I  had  an 
inspiration. 

"I  have  thought  of  a  better  plan  than  yours," 
I  suddenly  exclaimed.  "General  Benjamin  F. 
Butler  gave  in  Boston  the  other  day  a  lecture 
on  The  Irish  Soldier  in  America/  and  it  was  a 
big  success.  He's  here  in  town,  at  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel.  We'll  go  right  down  there  and 
call  on  him.  Come  along.  We  must  catch  him 
before  he  goes  out  and  escapes  us  for  the  day." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  the  bell-boy  who  had 
taken  our  cards  informed  us  that  we  were  to 
"go  right  up." 

"Come  in !"  shouted  a  deep  voice  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door. 

"Ben"    Butler,   then   Governor   of   Massa- 

68 


chusetts,  rose  lumberingly  from  his  chair  and 
said  with  a  questioning  stare  on  his  heavy  face 
that  he  was  glad  to  see  us.  His  expression 
rather  belied  his  words;  but  I  enthusiastically 
explained  our  mission,  painting  a  touching 
picture  of  a  church  without  music  and  an  organ 
threatened  with  the  humiliation  of  being  carted 
back  to  a  warehouse.  Gazing  thoughtfully  into 
the  smoke  of  his  cigar,  General  Butler  gave 
close  attention  to  our  plea. 

"Well,"  he  finally  remarked,  "my  engage- 
ments are  such  that  I  am  afraid  I  can't  give  the 
lecture  in  New- York.  I  am  very  sorry.  I 
should  like  to  help  you,  but  I  cannot  neglect  my 
official  duties." 

"But  it  would  be  an  act  of  philanthropy, 
General/'1  I  exclaimed,  "and,  moreover,  it 
would  win  you  the  stanch  friendship  of  the 
Catholic  Church.  We'll  make  a  great  affair  of 
it,"  I  continued  rapidly.  "I'll  rent  the  Academy 
of  Music,  invite  all  the  leading  military  men  of 
the  city  and  get  some  good  friend  of  yours 
to  deliver,  by  way  of  introduction,  a  fitting 
eulogy  on  your  character  and  achievements." 

"I  am  afraid  that  if  he  was  a  man  with  a 
conscience  he  would  hesitate  about  the 
eulogy,"  remarked  the  General  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eyes,  "but  who  occurs  to  you  as  being 

69 


capable  of  doing  justice  to  such  an  inspiring 
theme?" 

Again  I  was  at  a  loss  for  a  reply.  One  or 
two  names  came  to  my  mind,  but  they  hap- 
pened to  be  those  of  enemies  of  Butler.  I  was 
hesitating,  when  Father  Flattery  interposed 
a  word. 

"If  I  may  make  a  suggestion,"  said  he,  "I 
will  say  that  I  think  Charles  A.  Dana  would 
be  an  excellent  man." 

"What?"  cried  the  General,  suddenly  swing- 
ing his  big  body  toward  the  priest.  "You  sug- 
gest Dana?  I  see,  sir,  that  you  have  a  large 
sense  of  humor.  Well  it  is  a  good  joke!" 

With  this  the  General  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  shook  with  laughter.  "Oh,  Dana 
would  be  an  excellent  man  to  pronounce  a 
eulogy  of  me!"  he  exclaimed  when  he  had 
partly  recovered  himself,  "an  excellent  man! 
In  his  own  peculiar  way  he  would  do  me  ample 
justice.  He's  done  it  before,  more  than  once." 

I  was  red  with  mortification;  but  the  good 
father  of  course  had  no  idea  that  the  great 
editor  was  Butler's  most  relentless  and  caustic 
critic. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  General,  "I  am 
sorry  to  have  to  terminate  this  pleasant  talk, 
but  I  have  an  appointment  down  town  which 

70 


must  be  kept.  As  to  the  lecture,  I  will  say  this : 
You  may  count  on  me  to  deliver  it,  whenever 
and  wherever  you  say,  if  you  can  assure  me 
that  the  speech  of  introduction  will  be  delivered 
by  my  great  and  good  friend,  Charles  A.  Dana. 
Come  back  and  tell  me  what  he  says/'  he  added 
as  a  parting  shot  as  we  were  bowing  our- 
selves out. 

"It's  a  forlorn  hope,  father,"  I  remarked  as 
we  were  leaving  the  hotel,  "but  as  Dana  prides 
himself  upon  his  ability  to  get  new  light  on  the 
affairs  of  life  every  day,  and  upon  the  fact  that 
he  never  lets  his  opinions  of  the  past  interfere 
with  his  course  of  action  in  the  present,  we 
shall  run  down  to  The  Sun'  office  and  have  a 
little  talk  with  him." 

A  previous  acquaintance  with  Dana  on  my 
part  gave  us  easy  access  to  the  inner  sanctum. 
I  plunged  at  once  into  the  subject  at  hand,  and 
Dana,  glancing  at  his  letters  while  I  talked,  let 
me  have  my  say  without  interruption.  When 
I  had  finished  he  turned  his  head  slowly  and 
gazed  at  me  fixedly,  his  forehead  wrinkled  with 
amusement,  for  at  least  half  a  minute  without 
saying  a  word. 

"Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Morrissey,"  he  said  at 
last,  "that  is  somewhat  daring  for  you  to  come 
to  me  with  a  proposal  like  this  ?" 

71 


"Perhaps  so,"  I  answered  quickly;  "but  the 
cause  is  one  for  which  I  would  dare  much/' 

"You  don't  think  'Ben'  Butler  really  ima- 
gines that  I  would  speak  a  good  word  for  him, 
do  you?" 

"If  you  did,"  I  replied,  "I  can  assure  you  that 
he  would  be  the  most  gratified  man  in  the  Unit- 
ed States." 

"But  you  must  know  that  it  has  never  been 
exactly  my  aim  in  life  to  gratify  Ben  Butler." 
replied  Dana. 

"I  know  that  well,"  I  said,  "but  it  is  never 
too  late  to  acquire  a  new  aim,  is  it?  General 
Butler  would  be  glad  to  cooperate  with  you  in 
the  interest  of  harmony — the  harmony,  in  a 
church,  of  a  fine  organ,  and,  I  might  add,  the 
harmony  in  life  of  two  distinguished  citizens." 

Mr.  Dana  smiled  broadly.  "That's  not  a  bad 
idea  of  yours,  Mr.  Morrissey:  humaii  har- 
mony for  the  sake  of  musical  harmony.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  the  humor  of  my  pronouncing 
any  sort  of  eulogy  on  Ben  Butler  rather  ap- 
peals to  me.  It  wouldn't  be  consistent,  no; 
but  I  don't  take  much  stock  in  consistency.  I 
believe  with  my  old  friend  Emerson,  that  it  is 
the  hobgoblin  of  little  minds.  This  thing  would 
surprise  some  of  the  good  people  of  the  town, 
but  I  don't  mind  making  them  sit  up  once  in 

73 


MAJOR-GENERAL   BENJAMIN    F.   BUTLER 


CHARLES    A.    DANA 


awhile.  In  short,  I  am  inclined  to  view  your 
proposition  favorably;  but  you  tell  Ben  Butler 
that  if  he  lets  me  introduce  him  he  must  take 
the  consequences." 

After  this  interesting  and  most  satisfactory 
interview  I  hurried  to  several  newspaper  offices 
where  I  had  friends,  and  imparted  the  informa- 
tion that  Dana,  who  had  hurled  so  many  shafts 
at  Butler,  was  about  to  pour  balm  on  the  lat- 
ter's  wounds.  From  the  manner  in  which  this 
news  was  received  I  knew  that  we  should  have 
heavy  head-lines  in  the  next  morning's  papers. 
Late  that  afternoon  we  again  saw  General 
Butler. 

"What?  Dana  willing  to  introduce  me?"  he 
exclaimed  in  a  tone  that  was  almost  a  shout. 
"I  can't  believe  it.  If  it's  so,  it's  a  miracle. 
But  I  am  game.  Let  me  know  the  date  a  few 
days  ahead  and  you  can  depend  upon  my  be- 
ing on  hand." 

The  next  day,  after  the  papers  had  exploited 
the  coming  lecture  for  the  benefit  of  the  church 
in  a  manner  which  would  have  delighted  the 
heart  of  a  press-agent,  I  engaged  the  Academy 
of  Music.  Then  I  visited  all  the  armories  in 
town,  and  left  invitations  for  every  colonel, 
major,  captain  and  lieutenant  to  be  present  in 
uniform  on  the  stage  to  hear  the  great  lecture 

73 


on  the  Irish  soldier  in  America  by  General 
Butler. 

My  next  care  was  to  arrange  for  a  band  of 
musicians,  and  to  give  orders  for  the  building 
on  the  Academy  stage  of  a  great  tier  of  seats, 
which,  when  occupied  by  the  military  men  in 
their  martial  attire,  would  present  an  impres- 
sive setting  for  the  distinguished  speakers  of 
the  evening. 

When  the  night  came,  not  only  these  seats, 
but  also  everyone  in  the  house  was  occupied. 
The  officers  in  their  resplendent  uniforms, 
forming  a  great  semi-circle  that  reached  away 
up  to  the  rear  flies,  presented  the  most  gorge- 
ous stage  picture  I  ever  have  seen.  I  confess 
that  I  was  proud  of  my  work.  In  the  green- 
room, amid  the  inspiring  tones  of  the  music 
that  came  to  us  from  the  stage,  I  greeted  Mr. 
Dana. 

"What's  this  youVe  got  me  into,  Mor- 
rissey?"  he  cried.  "I  had  no  idea  that  the 
affair  was  to  be  so  elaborate  and — and  ap- 
palling. Why,  man,  I'm  nearly  overwhelmed ! 
I  suppose  you  and  Butler  arranged  to  have  me 
flanked  on  every  side  by  military  so  that  he 
would  be  protected  against  my  vicious  attacks. 
They  say  that  all's  fair  in  love  and  war,  Mor- 

74 


rissey;  but  this  is  too  much — a  single  civilian 
against  an  army." 

I  laughed  and  hurried  away,  leaving  Dana 
to  buckle  on  his  armor.  Despite  his  protests 
that  he  was  frightened,  he  was  self-possessed 
enough  when  a  few  minutes  later  he  appeared 
on  the  stage,  amid  an  explosion  of  applause. 
A  few  seconds  afterward,  from  the  other  side, 
General  Butler  made  his  entrance,  a  soldierly 
and  impressive  figure  in  the  regalia  of  a 
major-general.  Again  the  great  audience 
roared  out  a  mighty  greeting. 

But  when  Dana  advanced  to  the  front  of 
the  stage  the  tumult  of  sounds  almost  in- 
stantly died  away,  and  in  a  silence  that  was 
strange  in  contrast  the  celebrated  editor  began 
to  speak.  There  was  hardly  a  person  present 
who  was  not  well  aware  of  the  long  warfare 
he  had  waged  against  Butler,  and  all  leaned 
forward  eagerly  to  catch  every  word  he  was 
saying  about  the  traditional  victim  of  his  pen, 
who  was  sitting  within  three  feet  of  him. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  chronicle  Dana's 
speech;  no  one  could  do  this  from  memory 
without  failing  utterly  to  do  it  justice.  I  shall 
only  say  that  it  was  overflowing  with  tact  and 
cleverness,  and  that  at  its  close,  when  Dana 
said :  "And  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have 

75 


the  honor  to  introduce  to  you  one  of  Ameri- 
ca's foremost  soldiers,"  there  was  a  burst  of 
applause  that  shook  the  building. 

Butler's  voice  was  husky  when  he  began  to 
speak.  It  was  not  nervousness,  but  an  emotion 
that  arose  from  a  far  deeper  source.  The 
kind  and  gracious  words  from  apparently  the 
most  relentless  of  his  enemies  unmasked  him. 

But  as  a  vent  for  it  he  threw  his  feeling  into 
his  address.  He  spoke  of  the  Irish  soldier  as 
if  he  loved  him.  He  surpassed  himself  in  elo- 
quence, and  the  audience,  ardently  Irish  in  its 
sympathies,  was  carried  away  by  his  emotion 
and  his  oratory,  There  were  deafening 
cheers,  that  did  not  subside  in  long  moments. 
Never  before  had  the  Academy  of  Music 
known  such  a  night. 

When  the  address  was  finished,  and  the  en- 
thusiastic band  was  making  the  air  quiver  and 
dance  with  the  refrains  of  old  Erin,  and  the 
military  men  were  pressing  closely  around  the 
General  to  shake  his  hand,  I  was  clutched  by 
the  arm  by  Charles  Delmonico. 

"Morrissey,"  he  cried,  "it's  been  great, 
great!  .I'm  not  an  Irishman,  like  you,  but  to- 
night I  wish  I  was,  and  for  my  deficiency  I 
want  to  make  amends.  I  want  you  to  get  to- 
gether a  party  of  about  twenty-five,  including 

76 


Butler  and  Dana  of  course,  and  bring  them 
over  to  my  place  for  supper." 

We  had  Delmonico's  best  supper-room,  and 
the  best  of  his  food  and  wines  in  unlimited 
quanities.  Besides  our  guests  of  honor,  the 
colonels  and  majors  were  all  there.  Toasts 
were  drunk  to  General  Butler,  to  Mr.  Dana,  to 
both  together,  to  the  Irish  soldier,  to  St. 
Cecelia's  Church.  The  former  foes  again 
made  speeches  and  pledged  each  other,  and  be- 
tween them  the  hatchet  was  buried  forever. 


The  thought  of  this  affair,  of  the  gathering 
of  the  warriors  beneath  the  outspreading 
wings  of  the  Angel  of  Peace,  reminds  me  of 
another  event  which  glistened  with  martial 
trappings. 

As  manager  for  Joseph  Brooks,  I  accom- 
panied him  to  London  to  induce  that  fine  actor, 
Charles  Wyndham,  now  Sir  Charles,  to  pre- 
sent his  repertory  of  plays  in  the  United 
States.  He  accepted  our  proposal;  but  re- 
marked: "I  want  you  to  promise  that  in 
Chicago  you  arrange  a  military  reception  for 


me." 


Toward  the  close  of  the  New- York  engage- 
ment of  the  company  Wyndham  again  brought 
up  the  subject.  "By  the  way,"  he  said,  "has 

77 


anything  been  done  about  that  military  recep- 
tion in  Chicago?  It's  part  of  our  agreement, 
you  know,  and  I  insist  upon  it.  I  don't  want 
to  seem  ungracious;  but  unless  it  is  given,  I 
fear  I  shall  not  be  able  to  resume,  after  this 
one  tour,  the  pleasant  relationship  which  now 
exists  between  us/5 

In  explanation,  Wyndham  gave  us  a  bit  of 
his  past  history  that  was  news.  It  seems  that 
in  his  early  days  he  lived  in  Chicago  and  was 
a  doctor.  When  the  Civil  War  broke  out  he 
enlisted  as  a  surgeon,  and  rose  to  the  rank  of 
major.  From  the  manner  in  which  he  im- 
parted this  information  we  could  see  that  he 
was  prouder  of  his  work  as  an  army  doctor 
than  of  all  his  laurels  as  an  actor.  This  was 
why  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  being  greeted 
in  Chicago  with  the  flare  of  trumpets  and  the 
roll  of  drums. 

The  colonels  of  a  number  of  Chicago  regi- 
ments listened  to  my  proposal  coldly,  and  as- 
sured me  that  their  soldiers  could  not  be 
utilized  to  swell  box-office  receipts.  This  was 
discouraging,  but  I  had  lost  none  of  my  fervor 
when  I  dropped  into  an  armory  one  evening 
where  there  was  a  regimental  drill  in  progress. 
It  was  something  of  a  gala  occasion,  I  learned 

78 


afterward,  because  the  men  for  the  first  time 
had  on  gorgeous  new  uniforms. 

The  Colonel  was  not  personally  directing 
the  maneuvers.  In  a  gallery  surrounded  by  a 
party  of  women,  he  was  looking  on,  and  there 
I  was  invited  to  join  him. 

"Magnificent!  Perfect!"  I  exclaimed.  "We 
have  some  fine  regiments  in  New- York,  but  I 
don't  remember  to  have  ever  seen  marching  to 
equal  this." 

I  was  sincere  enough  in  my  compliments, 
and  as  the  Colonel  was  perceptibly  warming 
up,  I  poured  them  out  generously.  "And  the 
beautiful  new  uniforms !"  I  added.  "The  regi- 
ment won't  have  an  opportunity  to  parade  in 
them  until  next  Decoration  Day,  I  suppose. 
What  a  pity  that  the  people  of  the  city  can't 
see  the  regiment  in  them  while  they're  fresh !" 
I  perceived  that  the  Colonel  was  inclined  to 
agree  with  me,  and  so  I  seized  the  opportunity 
to  tell  him  what  was  on  my  mind. 

"Are  you  certain  that  Mr.  Wyndham  was  a 
major  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Absolutely,"  I  responded.  The  women  had 
caught  the  drift  of  our  conversation,  and  rallied 
enthusiastically  to  my  support.  They  thought 
that  it  would  be  charming  for  the  regiment  to 
turn  out  to  do  honor  to  the  handsome  English- 

79 


man  who  had  served  the  country  in  a  time  of 
war,  and  all  of  them  said  that  there  could  be 
no  time  better  than  this  when  the  soldiers 
would  be  able  to  wear  their  lovely  new  uni- 
forms. The  upshot  of  the  talk  was  that  the 
Colonel  agreed  to  the  military  reception. 

Wyndham's  company  was  due  in  Chicago 
the  following  Sunday,  and  for  that  morning 
we  arranged  the  demonstration.  It  was  an 
excellent  time  for  the  regiment,  because  the 
daily  occupations  of  the  men  would  not  be  in- 
terfered with,  and  it  was  an  excellent  time  for 
us,  because  all  Chicago  would  be  at  leisure  to 
observe  the  honor  given  to  a  military  hero. 

The  train  bringing  the  company  was  due  in 
Chicago  early  in  the  morning.  It  would  be 
undignified,  of  course,  for  our  hero  to  wait 
about  the  station  or  elsewhere  for  a  convenient 
time  for  the  people  of  the  city  to  see  him  being 
received,  so  I  arranged  to  have  the  special  car 
in  which  the  company  traveled  switched  off  at 
Grand  Crossing,  just  east  of  Chicago,  and 
brought  in  by  a  train  that  would  arrive  at  a 
most  opportune  time — a  little  after  twelve, 
just  when  the  streets  would  be  filled  with 
people  coming  out  of  church. 

Meanwhile  I  had  persuaded  the  Mayor,  the 
so 


late  Carter  Harrison  to  give  the  occasion  the 
official  stamp  of  his  presence. 

The  train  fortunately  was  on  time.  With 
the  regiment,  in  the  new  uniforms,  lined  up, 
the  band  playing,  and  the  crowd  cheering,  Mr. 
Wyndham,  always  a  man  of  impressive  ap- 
pearance, made  his  entrance,  so  to  speak,  on 
the  rear  platform  of  the  car,  and  bowed 
gravely,  like  Napoleon. 

After  a  moment  of  this  he  was  escorted  to 
the  first  carriage,  in  which  sat  the  Mayor,  a 
judge,  and  "Dick"  Hooley  the  theatrical  man- 
ager. In  several  carriages  immediately  fol- 
lowing were  leading  members  of  the  municipal 
government,  and  then  came  the  men  and 
women  of  Wyndham's  company. 

The  band  and  the  regiment  led  the  way 
through  State-st.  and  Wabash  and  Michigan- 
aves.  Sonorous  music,  attuned  to  the  Sabbath 
calm,  filled  the  air.  We  moved  slowly,  almost 
solemnly,  while  the  good  people  coming  from 
church  stopped  and  gazed  with  great  interest. 
It  was  a  stately  pageant.  At  the  hotel  we  gave 
our  guests  an  elaborate  luncheon,  and,  I  might 
add  as  a  detail,  we  played  for  four  weeks  to 
record-breaking  houses  at  Hooley's  Theater. 


81 


PAULINE   L'ALLEMAND 


CHAPTER  V. 

AN  ARTISTE  IN  DISTRESS. 

The  prima  donna!  You  see  in  your  mind's 
eye  a  glow  of  lights,  beautiful  women  in 
dazzling  gowns,  charming  scenery,  and  as 
queen  of  all  a  vision  of  radiant  femininity 
pouring  forth  songs  that  thrill.  The  prima 
donna,  rising  triumphant  on  a  wave  of  music, 
seems  to  be  humanity's  final  expression  of 
loveliness  and  fascination,  and  she  is. 

But  the  operatic  manager  sees  his  prima 
donna  not  alone  behind  the  footlights  in  the 
brilliant  moments  of  her  reign;  he  sees  her  in 
the  comparative  dullness  of  his  business  office 
during  the  day,  in  the  gloom  of  the  theater  at 
rehearsal  time.  She  is  still  an  angel — far  be  it 
from  me  to  say  otherwise — but  she  also  is 
much  of  a  woman.  For  instance,  she  is  not 
exactly  a  stranger  to  caprice ;  she  has  mysteri- 
ous impulses.  The  wise  impresario  does  not 
attempt  to  fathom  these.  He  accepts  them, 
smilingly  if  possible,  as  part  of  the  day's  work. 
Perhaps  he  ages  before  his  time,  but  what  of 
that?  Under  what  better  auspices  could  he 
grow  gray  than  as  prime  minister  to  a  queen 
of  song? 

85 


The  American  Opera  Company  had  finished 
a  brilliant  engagement  in  New- York.  Theo- 
dore Thomas  had  conducted,  Emma  Juch,  now 
Mrs.  Francis  Wellman,  and  Jessie  Bartlett 
Davis,  then  just  beginning  to  attract  attention, 
had  sung  leading  roles.  The  company  had 
been  in  all  respects  a  strong  one,  but  the  mem- 
ber of  it  who  most  attracted  me  was  Pauline 
L'Allemand.  She  had  scored  a  great  success 
in  the  role  of  Lakme,  which  she  created  in  this 
country,  and  had  won  high  praise  from  the 
public  and  the  critics. 

On  the  strength  of  all  this  I  engaged  her  as 
my  prima  donna  for  a  spring  season  at  the 
Grand  Opera  House.  We  made  great  prepara- 
tions for  the  opening,  and  I  may  say  incident- 
ally that  I  staked  the  larger  part  of  my  re- 
sources on  the  venture.  On  the  first  night 
everything  w'ent  swimmingly.  At  several  per- 
formances we  repeated  our  success.  The  critics 
were  kind,  and  opera-lovers  were  flocking  to 
our  doors. 

I  was  in  high  feather.  I  foresaw  a  trium- 
phant season,  but  to  maintain  the  public  in- 
terest I  decided  on  a  frequent  change  of  opera. 
With  considerable  blowing  of  trumpets  I  an- 
nounced "Faust/'  with  L'Allemand,  of  course, 
in  the  part  of  Marguerite.  A  good  deal  was 

86 


said  about  it  in  the  newspapers,  and  my  patrons 
were  looking  forward  to  it.  The  advance  sale 
of  seats  was  unusually  large.  It  was  the  after- 
noon of  the  day  set  for  the  opening,  just  after 
an  exhausting  dress  rehearsal,  and  within  half 
a  dozen  hours  of  the  raising  of  the  curtain 
that  Pauline,  who,  I  had  noticed,  had  re- 
hearsed rather  perfunctorily,  informed  me  that 
she  wished  to  see  me  in  private  for  a  moment. 
We  went  to  my  office. 

"I  can't  do  it!  I  can't  do  it!"  she  burst  out 
when  I  had  closed  the  door.  "In  the  first  place, 
there's  that  woman  whom  you  have  selected 
for  the  role  of  Sibel.  She's  a  soprano.  Who- 
ever heard  of  Sibel  being  sung  by  a  soprano? 
You  know  she  should  be  a  contralto." 

"I  know  the  role  is  usually  sung  by  a  con- 
tralto, but  Gounod  wrote  it,  you  know,  for  a 
soprano,"  I  replied,  glancing  at  some  letters  on 
my  desk,  so  as  not  to  seem  to  take  too  seriously 
this  little  flurry. 

"No,  I  don't  know !"  exclaimed  Pauline  in  a 
rising  voice.  "But  I  do  know  that  I  don't  like 
her.  She  gets  on  my  nerves ;  I  won't  sing  with 
her.  She's  the  last  straw.  I  won't  sing  any- 
way !  I  feel  that  I  am  on  the  verge  of  physical 
collapse — I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr. 
Morrissey.  I  wouldn't  face  that  audience  to- 

87 


night  for  a  thousand  dollars  extra,  and  I  don't 
intend  to  face  any  other  till  next  fall!  This 
afternoon  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  terminate 
this  engagement  here  and  now.  I'm  sincerely 
sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but  as  for  the  public, 
what  do  I  care  for  it?  Must  I  ruin  my  health 
and  voice  to  give  these  people,  who  applaud 
me  at  night  and  forget  me  in  the  morning,  a 
few  pleasant  evenings  ?  I've  been  working  far 
too  hard  this  winter,  and  can  stand  no  more  of 
this  spring  engagement.  I  am  going  to  take 
the  first  steamer  for  Europe  and  rest,  rest. 
Ye  Gods,  I  must  have  rest !" 

I  saw  that  my  prima  donna  was  more  than 
half  hysterical,  and  at  the  same  time  I  saw  my 
little  air-castle  of  a  successful  season  tumbling 
about  my  head,  and  crushing  me,  financially, 
in  the  ruins.  Every  tick  of  the  clock,  more- 
over, was  bringing  closer  the  night's  perform- 
ance, and  I  had  absolutely  no  one  except 
L'Allemand  for  the  role  of  Marguerite.  You 
can  imagine  my  state  of  mind.  But  I  had  at- 
tained sufficient  wisdom  to  know  that  to  suc- 
cessfully deal  with  a  woman,  and  particularly 
a  woman  of  an  excitable  temperament,  you 
must,  above  all,  control  your  own  feelings;  so 
I  said  in  as  calm  a  manner  as  I  could  muster : 

"Please  don't  become  excited,    Pauline."    I 

88 


had  to  pause  here  to  master  my  own  excite- 
ment, and  to  collect  my  thoughts  for  the  task 
of  changing  her  determination.  After  a 
moment  of  silence,  in  which  she  sat  with  her 
head  back  in  the  chair  and  her  eyes  half  shut, 
I  went  on  soothingly : 

"I  know  you  are  very  tired ;  I  know  as  well 
as  you  do  that  you  need  rest.  The  truth  is,  I 
am  worn  out  myself.  Don't  let's  say  another 
word  about  this  matter  just  at  present.  We'll 
do  something  better.  I  haven't  had  a  bite  to 
eat  since  morning.  Have  you  ?  I  thought  not. 
Well,  I  shall  call  a  cab,  and  we  shall  go  over 
to  Delmonico's  and  have  a  nice,  quiet  little 
dinner.  Mrs.  Morrissey  will  join  us. 

The  prima  donna  gazed  at  me  out  of  weary 
eyes  and  made  no  reply. 

"What  do  you  say?  Is  it  a  go?"  I  said  this 
in  a  tone  calculated  to  be  bright  and  persuasive. 

"As  you  please,"  she  answered. 

I  hastily  sent  for  a  carriage,  and  called  Mrs. 
Morrissey,  who  had  come  down  to  the  theater 
for  the  dress  rehearsal.  On  the  way  over  to  the 
hotel  L'Allemand  sank  back  among  the  cush- 
ions and  closed  her  eyes. 

"Not  for  a  year's  salary  would  I  face  that 
audience,"  she  murmured.  My  wife  took  her 
hand,  and  our  tired  singer  said  little  more  until 

89 


we  were  ensconced  in  a  cosy,  little,  private 
dining-room  beside  an  open  window,  through 
which  came  playful  little  breezes  that  gently 
fluttered  the  table-cloth  and  set  the  flowers 
nodding.  I  remember  well  that  these  were 
fragrant  breezes,  laden  with  the  aroma  and 
the  warmth  of  spring.  They  seemed  to  clear 
from  the  brow  cobwebs  of  care,  to  bear  mis- 
sives of  new  hope,  to  arouse  the  imagination. 
We  breathed  deeply  of  them. 

The  freshness  and  sunshine  was  in  delight- 
ful contrast  to  the  darkened  theater  and  our 
day  of  toil.  I  could  see  that  Pauline's  eyes  al- 
ready were  growing  brighter.  After  a  few 
mouthfuls  of  the  food,  which  I  had  ordered 
with  great  care,  desiring  it  to  be  stimulating 
and  not  satiating,  and  after  a  few  sips  of 
champagne,  she  actually  began  to  smile,  to 
show  a  touch  of  her  usual  vivacity. 

"This  is  charming,"  she  suddenly  exclaimed, 
"and  such  a  relief !  I  love  the  spring  and 
flowers." 

"And  so  do  we,"  I  replied  with  fervor, 
speaking  for  Mrs.  Morrissey  and  myself.  Our 
guest  indeed  had  struck  a  responsive  note, 
since  we  both  were  flower-lovers,  and  knew 
something  of  them.  I  told  of  some  rare  ones 
I  had  seen,  and  described  a  certain  little  gar- 
go 


den  in  the  country.  It  was  with  this  kind  of 
talk,  with  never  a  reference  to  theatrical  en- 
gagements or  the  breaking  of  them,  that  we 
passed  away  an  hour. 

"And  now,  Pauline,"  I  finally  remarked, 
"you  must  lie  down  and  sleep  for  a  little  while. 
I  have  already  engaged  a  room  on  this  floor. 
Mrs.  Morrissey  will  be  with  you." 

She  was  nothing  loath,  and  I  left  the  two 
together.  I  could  trust  my. wife  to  continue 
the  good  work.  Yet  I  still  was  anxious,  realiz- 
ing the  force  of  the  great  truth  that  you  never 
can  tell  about  a  woman.  I  went  over  to  the 
theater,  but  found  it  impossible  to  concentrate 
my  mind  on  business.  I  returned  to  the  hotel, 
tried  to  read  a  newspaper  in  the  rotunda,  and 
at  last,  after  about  an  hour  and  a  half,  knocked 
with  a  nervous  feeling  upon  the  door  behind 
which  my  hopes  and  fears  were  centered.  I 
heard  a  laugh  within.  My  spirits  soared. 
They  were  laughing  at  me,  I  knew;  but  under 
the  circumstances  I  could  stand  it. 

"How  do  you  feel,  Pauline?"  I  asked. 

"A  world  better,  thank  you,"  she  answered, 
gazing  at  me  with  a  smile. 

I  saw  that  L'Allemand,  like  Richard,  was 
herself  again.  "And  you  will  sing  to-night,  of 
course?" 

91 


She  paused,  still  holding  me  in  that  lumin- 
ous gaze  and  smile  of  hers.  "Yes,"  she  at 
length  responded,  in  an  incisive  little  way  that 
was  music  to  my  ears.  "But,"  she  added,  "you 
must  not  imagine  for  a  moment  that  it  was 
you  who  induced  me  to  change  my  mind.  You 
must  not  congratulate  yourself  on  the  clever 
little  ruse  of  the  dinner;  but  upon  your  luck 
in  having  Mrs.  Morrissey  for  a  wife.  She  did 
it.  You  should  burn  a  little  incense  on  her 
altar,  or  much  better  yet,  let  her  select  a  little 
token  of  your  appreciation  down  at  Tiffany's. 
Come  to  think  of  it,  I  think  I  shall  make  you 
promise  before  I  consent  to  sing." 

She  made  me  promise  without  the  slightest 
difficulty,  because  with  L'Allemand  in  gay 
mood  I  knew  that  the  storm  of  the  afternoon 
had  disappeared,  and  that  she  would  be  in  her 
best  form  that  night,  which  meant  a  great  suc- 
cess. It  was,  and  Pauline  said  no  more  to  me 
about  breaking  down,  or  of  a  sudden  flight 
to  Europe. 


My  troubles  during  the  spring  season,  how- 
ever, were  not  altogether  over.  Once  more  I 
was  forced  to  face  a  crisis,  and  it  was  even 
more  acute  than  the  one  of  the  threatened  col- 
lapse of  L'Allemand,  because  I  had  much  less 

92 


time  to  save  the  operatic  bark  from  going  upon 
the  rocks. 

I  had  announced  the  opera  "Martha,"  and 
for  it  had  specially  engaged  a  prima  donna 
who  had  made  a  high  reputation  in  the  leading 
role.  She  was  widely  known  in  those  days. 
Many  would  still  remember  her  if  I  should 
mention  her  name,  but  this  I  do  not  intend  to 
do,  for  a  reason  which  will  be  obvious  in  a 
moment. 

Besides  the  fame  of  her  voice  with  the  music- 
loving  public,  she  had  considerable  social 
vogue,  having  sung  at  the  White  House  and  at 
the  residences  of  numerous  people  of  fashion 
in  New- York.  Therefore  I  congratulated  my- 
self on  being  able  to  secure  her  services,  and 
proclaimed  her  in  the  columns  of  the  press  and 
on  the  fences  with  an  even  more  clarion  voice 
than  usual. 

When  the  doors  were  swung  open  for  the 
opening  night  of  "Martha,"  I  saw  to  my  satis- 
faction that  my  extra  outlay  was  going  to  be 
amply  justified.  When  the  overture  was  being 
played,  in  the  parlance  of  the  box-office,  we 
were  "turning  'em  away." 

The  curtain  had  risen,  and  in  my  little  office 
behind  the  ticket  window,  with  sweet  music  in 
my  ears  and  piles  of  money  before  me  on  the 

93 


table,  I  was  absorbed  in  the  occupation  of 
"counting  up,"  a  pleasing  one  on  this  occasion, 
because  there  was  so  much  to  count.  Suddenly 
the  head  usher  interrupted  me  with  an  exciting 
and  jarring  voice : 

"Mr.  Morrissey,  there's  something  wrong 
with  the  prima  donna." 

"Wrong?  What's  wrong?"  I  cried,  jumping 
from  my  chair. 

"Come  and  see,"  answered  the  young  man 
in  an  agitated  tone. 

I  went  and  I  saw.  He  was  right.  It  was  all 
too  clear  that  there  was  something  wrong  with 
my  prima  donna.  The  audience  was  beginning 
to  laugh.  Throughout  the  house  there  were 
titters  and  frequent  loud  guffaws.  The  people 
had  come  to  hear  elevating  music,  and  were 
finding  themselves  at  a  roaring  farce.  They 
were  evidently  enjoying  it,  and  so  was  my  much 
vaunted  operatic  star.  Standing  forth  in  the 
full  glow  of  the  footlights,  the  center  of  attrac- 
tion, she  had  lost  control  of  her  risibilities.  In 
fact,  she  seemed  to  be  having  "the  time  of  her 
life." 

Bursting  with  anger  and  chagrin,  I  rushed 
around  to  the  stage,  and  when  my  precious 
prima  donna  "came  off"  from  her  scene,  after 
finishing  the  sentimental  air  which  she  had 

94 


transformed  into  a  "laughing  song,"  I  seized 
her  by  the  shoulders. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  this  ?"  I  cried  harshly. 
"Brace  up !  You're  making  a  fool  of  me.  You 
are  ruining  my  reputation  as  a  manager.  To- 
morrow the  whole  town  will  be  laughing  at 
us." 

"Why,  Mr.  Morrissey,"  exclaimed  the 
singer,  endeavoring  to  simulate  surprise  and 
indignation,  but  ending  with  a  giggle,  "how 
dare  you  treat  me  so?  Let  go  of  me,  please. 
I  can  stand  alone." 

"How  in  the  world  did  it  happen?"  I 
demanded. 

"Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Morrissey,  I  had  an 
awful  pain  in  my  shoulder  this  afternoon,  and 
I  just  took  an — an  opiate,  and  it  seemed  to  go 
right  to  my  head.  But  I'll  be  all  right  if  you 
let  me  lie  down  for  a  minute,  only  for  a  minute. 
Please  do,  Mr.  Morrissey!" 

"I  couldn't  think  of  it  for  an  instant,"  I 
said.  "Here,  Mr.  — ,"  I  added,  calling  to  the 
stage-manager,  "take  hold  of  Miss  Blank's 
arm ;  we'll  have  to  walk  her  up  and  down." 

We  did.  We  fairly  ran  with  her,  and  in  the 
pauses  for  breath  we  held  an  ammonia  bottle 
to  her  nose,  slapped  her  hands,  rubbed  her 
forehead.  It  was  rather  ludicrous,  I  suppose, 

95 


this  frantic  effort  to  galvanize  a  prima  donna 
into  life  and  charm,  in  order  that  she  might  be 
a  fitting  representative  of  the  Goddess  of  Song, 
but  I  saw  nothing  amusing  in  the  situation. 

The  next  scene  was  as  bad  as  before.  She 
was  greeted  with  mingled  applause  and 
laughter.  She  joined  in  the  merrymaking. 
She  would  laugh,  then  the  audience  would 
laugh,  and  then  they  would  laugh  together. 
At  the  end  of  the  act  we  hurried  her  to  her 
dressing-room,  where  the  warm  air  over- 
powered her  completely. 

We  had  fifteen  minutes  in  which  to  do  some- 
thing, and  I  sat  down,  with  my  head  in  my 
hands,  to  ponder.  But  I  could  think  of  nothing 
except  that  most  dreaded  ordeal  of  managers — 
an  apologetic  dismissal  of  the  audience  and  the 
return  of  its  money.  However,  there  appeared 
to  be  nothing  else  to  do,  and  I  started  toward 
the  stage  when  a  young  woman  passed. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Morrissey,"  she  said,  "I 
have  just  dropped  in  to  get  some  costumes  I 
left  in  my  dressing-room."  She  was  Camille 
Mouri,  who  had  sung  for  me  in  some  other 
operas,  but  whom  I  had  let  go,  thinking  I 
should  not  need  her  in  the  remainder  of  the 
season. 

96 


"Can  you  sing  Martha?"  I  cried,  catching 
her  impulsively  by  the  hand. 

"It  is  my  best  role,"  she  answered. 

"Come  along  then,  quick,"  I  exclaimed,  drag- 
ging her  with  me  toward  the  dressing-room. 
You  have  got  to  take  the  prima  donna's  place, 
and  must  go  on  in  ten  minutes." 

"But  her  costumes  won't  fit  me,"  she  pro- 
tested, holding  back. 

"Well  fix  that,"  I  answered.  "You  must 
sing.  I'll  give  you  two  hundred  dollars  for  to- 
night and  re-engage  you."  I  sent  half  a  dozen 
stage  hands  running  for  the  wardrobe  woman. 

"Tuck  the  dresses ;  take  them  in ;  slash  them 
if  necessary,"  I  commanded  her. 

I  don't  suppose  there  ever  was  quicker  dress- 
making. I  shouldn't  like  to  vouch  for  its  per- 
fection of  finish,  but  I  can  vouch  for  the  fact 
that  with  only  ten  minutes'  delay  of  the  curtain, 
a  new  Martha,  smiling  and  serene,  stood  before 
the  audience.  It  was  silent  for  a  few  seconds, 
spellbound,  and  then  burst  into  applause.  The 
night  was  saved. 


97 


DOM   PEDRO,   EMPEROR  OF  BRAZII 


ANNIE    LOUISE    GARY 


PASQUALE  BRIGNOLI 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AN  EMPEROR  AND  A  POET. 

"The  Emperor  Will  Arrive  To-day/'  This 
head-line,  in  a  newspaper  propped  up  before 
me  on  the  breakfast  table,  caught  my  eye,  and 
I  read  it  eagerly,  because  I  instantly  realized 
that  an  Emperor  was  just  the  man  to  help  me 
in  a  venture  I  had  on  hand. 

It  was  in  Philadelphia  in  Centennial  days. 
For  several  days  I  had  been  much  engrossed  in 
preparations  for  what  I  had  named  a  "Grand 
Musical  Congress,"  a  series  of  three  concerts 
for  which  a  number  of  the  leading  vocalists  and 
instrumentalists  of  America  had  been  engaged. 
It  was  a  private  enterprise,  largely  my  own. 
My  artists  were  the  most  expensive  in  the  land, 
and  this  meant  that  I  had  obligated  myself  to 
the  payment  of  a  lot  of  money. 

The  opening  had  been  announced  for  the 
next  Monday  night,  and  I  was  looking  forward 
to  it  rather  nervously.  There  were  moments 
when  I  wondered  whether,  after  all,  the  good 
people  of  Philadelphia  and  the  strangers  within 
the  gates  would  favor  us  with  their  dollars  in 
sufficient  numbers  to  lift  the  income  above  the 
outlay.  I  never  before  had  undertaken  so  large 

101 


an  enterprise,  and  to  be  frank  I  was  experienc- 
ing some  of  the  symptoms  of  financial  stage- 
fright.  This  was  why  I  was  so  interested  in  the 
coming  of  the  Emperor  Dom  Pedro  of  Brazil. 
I  felt  that  he  could  be  of  use  to  me. 

With  considerable  pomp  he  and  the  Empress 
arrived  at  the  Continental  Hotel.  Indeed, 
when  they  approached  the  street  was  jammed 
with  American  citizens  eager  for  a  glimpse  of 
royalty.  I  had  fitted  an  office  within  the  portals 
for  the  transaction  of  the  business  of  my  con- 
certs, and  here  I  devoted  at  least  an  hour  that 
afternoon  to  the  task  of  drawing  up  a  proper 
note  informing  his  majesty  how  honored  my 
artists  and  I  should  feel  if  he  would  accept  a 
box  for  the  opening  concert.  I  did  not  forget 
to  add  that  he  would  hear  the  best  music  that 
America  could  produce,  and  that  we  should  be 
delighted,  in  the  event  of  his  presence,  to  ren- 
der the  national  hymn  of  his  country. 

This  communication  I  presented  to  a  glitter- 
ing attache  outside  the  door  of  the  Emperor's 
suite,  and  awaited  the  answer  with  much 
anxiety.  In  a  little  while  the  gentleman-in- 
waiting  handed  it  to  me  with  a  sweeping  bow, 
which  I  returned  in  kind,  except  that  I  cut  it 
rather  short  in  my  haste  to  see  what  his 
majesty  had  to  say. 

102 


At  a  single  glance  I  devoured  the  words, 
which  were  to  the  effect  that  the  Emperor  and 
Empress  were  pleased  to  accept  Mr.  Morris- 
sey's  invitation  to  hear  the  great  lyric  artists 
of  the  United  States.  In  my  sudden  joy  I 
could  have  slapped  on  the  back  the  dignitary  in 
gold  lace,  but  I  merely  bowed  again  and  tucked 
my  epistle  from  an  Emperor  in  my  safest  poc- 
ket. 

It  was  desirable,  of  course,  that  the  news- 
papers know  of  this,  so  I  lost  no  time  in 
despatching  a  messenger  to  the  strongholds  of 
the  press,  with  the  information  that  Mr.  Mor- 
rissey  would  be  pleased  to  receive  its  represen- 
tatives. The  reporters  came,  and  were  duly 
impressed.  As  may  be  imagined,  I  was  in  high 
feather.  My  doubts  had  disappeared.  With 
royalty  present  at  my  concert,  I  knew  that  the 
people  would  not  remain  away. 

On  Sunday  night  I  retired  betimes,  so  as  to 
be  in  the  best  form  for  the  greatest  day  my 
career  had  yet  seen.  I  already  had  made 
arrangements  for  a  lavish  decoration  of  the 
theater  in  the  colors  of  Brazil.  All  day  men 
and  women  filed  past  the  box-office  window 
buying  tickets  for  the  opening  concert,  and  few 
of  them  neglected  to  ask  if  the  Emperor  and 
Empress  surely  would  be  in  evidence. 

103 


There  was  neither  seats  nor  standing  room 
for  a  quarter  of  the  throng  that  stormed 
about  the  doors  that  night.  The  police 
had  their  hands  full  in  clearing  a  way 
for  the  carriages  of  the  Emperor's  party. 
While  the  orchestra  was  playing  the  open- 
ing number  I  surveyed  the  house.  Reach- 
ing to  the  roof  was  a  sea  of  faces.  The 
body  of  the  theater  was  brilliant  with  beautiful 
women  in  gorgeous  gowns  and  flashing  gems, 
and  as  a  huge  frame  for  this  dazzling  picture 
there  were  the  intermingled  flags  and  bunting 
of  Brazil  and  the  United  States.  The  boxes 
stood  forth  resplendent.  In  the  lower  one  on 
the  right-hand  side  sat  the  Emperor  and  the 
Empress,  surrounded  by  an  array  of  person- 
ages in  glistening  uniforms. 

Naturally,  I  was  proud  of  this  culmination 
of  my  weeks  of  toil  and  worry.  It  was  for  me 
one  of  those  happy  moments  that  sometimes 
come  as  the  fruit  of  long-continued  effort.  For 
the  concert  itself  I  had  no  fears,  for  Clara 
Louise  Kellogg,  Annie  Louise  Gary,  Signor 
Pasquale  Brignoli,  Julie  Rive  King,  Franz 
Remmertz  and  others  of  hardly  less  note,  the 
flower  of  the  musical  genius  of  the  United 
States,  were  even  then  in  their  dressing-rooms, 
keyed  up  for  the  effort  of  their  lives. 

104 


The  concert  was  well  under  way,  and  my 
artists  were  being  received  with  tumultuous 
applause,  when  one  of  the  attaches  of  the 
Emperor's  retinue  presented  himself  to  me.  He 
handed  me  a  note,  remarking:  "From  his 
majesty."  "The  Emperor  desires  to  know/' 
it  read,  "if  it  would  not  be  possible  to  change 
the  program  from  the  Chopin  waltzes  to  the 
Liszt  Rhapsody  No.  2,  which  is  a  special  fav- 
orite of  his." 

Now,  it  is  no  light  thing  to  make  changes  in 
the  middle  of  a  concert.  The  artists  and  the 
orchestra  may  not  be  prepared  for  a  substitu- 
tion, and  the  manager  must  consider  the  people 
in  the  house,  who  may  have  come  to  hear  the 
selection  which  he  eliminates.  Therefore  I 
answered  hesitatingly  that  I  should  have  to  ask 
Rive  King  if  she  could  play  the  rhapsody  on  so 
short  a  notice.  The  attache  waited  while  I 
went  to  put  the  question  to  her. 

"Indeed,  I  can  play  the  rhapsody!"  she  ex- 
claimed with  enthusiasm.  "Why,  I  was  a  pupil 
of  Liszt  in  Germany,  and  I  love  above  all  else 
to  play  his  music.  I  must  say  that  the  Emperor 
has  excellent  taste." 

I  returned  to  the  envoy  with  the  assurance 
that  Madam  King  would  be  delighted  to 
gratify  his  majesty,  and  that  she  too  thought 

105 


that  the  rhapsody  was  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful pieces  of  music  ever  written.  "I  should 
like  exceedingly,"  I  remarked,  "to  have  his 
majesty's  note  read  from  the  stage.  Do  you 
think  that  his  permission  could  be  obtained?" 

"I  am  sure  he  would  have  no  objection," 
answered  the  attache.  "It  is  not  necessary  to 
ask  him.  I  will  authorize  it  in  his  name/ 

And  so  the  note  was  read,  and  Madam  King 
played  the  rhapsody  as,  I  believe,  she  never 
had  before.  The  Emperor  and  Empress 
beamed  with  gratification,  and  applauded  with 
all  the  fervor  of  ordinary  music-lovers.  When 
the  last  strains  of  her  music  were  dying  away 
I  was  asked  to  come  to  the  royal  box  to  be  pre- 
sented to  their  majesties.  I  had  prepared  my- 
self, when  told  that  this  honor  awaited  me,  for 
an  ordeal;  but  found  it  far  otherwise.  Both 
the  Emperor  and  Empress  were  profuse  with 
compliments,  and  chatted  in  an  easy  manner 
that  caused  me  at  once  to  forget  that  I  was 
not  conversing  with  merely  a  cultivated  couple 
who  had  a  deep  love  and  knowledge  of  the 
world's  best  music. 

Dom  Pedro  told  me  that  he  was  perfectly 
familiar  with  the  names  of  my  principal  artists, 
and  on  the  strength  of  this,  with  no  idea  as  to 
whether  it  was  in  accordance  with  royal 

106 


etiquette,  I  invited  him  to  the  green-room.  He 
accepted  with  alacrity,  and  we  held  a  little 
levee  behind  the  scenes.  That  night  I  had  my 
artists  and  some  other  guests,  among  whom 
was  the  late  George  W.  Childs,  to  supper. 
There  was  much  sparkling  conversation;  but 
through  it  all  a  single  phrase  kept  running 
through  my  mind.  It  was:  "Long  live  the 
Emperor !" 

I  was  still  in  my  room  the  next  morning 
when  a  bell-boy  brought  me  word  that  one  of 
his  majesty's  retinue  was  waiting  for  me  in  the 
parlor.  Full  of  curiosity  as  to  what  his  mission 
might  be,  I  hurried  down.  Would  Mr.  Mor- 
rissey  accompany  him  at  once  to  the  Emperor  ? 
he  asked  me.  Mr.  Morrissey  certainly  would. 
His  majesty  greeted  me  with  extended  hand, 
again  complimented  me  on  the  success  of  the 
concert,  and  after  a  brief  interval  of  general 
conversation  inquired: 

"Do  you  think,  Mr.  Morrissey,  that  I  would 
be  recognized  if  I  should  go  out  on  the  streets 
on  foot?" 

"If  you  will  pardon  me  for  saying  so,"  I 
answered,  surveying  him,  "you  do  not  appear 
very  differently,  in  that  frock-coat,  from  just  a 
prosperous  American  citizen.  Once  away  from 

107 


the  hotel,  I  am  sure  that  you  would  not  be 
generally  recognized. " 

"Good!"  he  exclaimed.  "The  truth  is,  I  am 
so  hedged  about  by  wearying  formalities  in 
my  own  country  that  I  am  eager  to  seize  any 
opportunity  to  get  away  from  them,  to  get  a 
breath  of  real  liberty.  I  desire  much  to  observe 
the  life  of  the  great  city.  Will  you  not  walk 
out  with  me?" 

I  expressed  my  great  pleasure  at  being  able 
to  serve  him,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  in 
the  throng  of  pedestrians  on  the  street.  With 
the  exception  of  some  acquaintances  of  mine, 
no  one  noticed  us. 

"I  get  so  little  of  this  freedom!"  exclaimed 
the  Emperor  with  an  exultant  laugh  as  we 
dodged  a  truck  in  crossing  Broad-st.  He  told 
me  that  he  would  enjoy  selecting  an  American 
piano  for  the  apartments  of  the  Empress  in  the 
palace  at  Rio  Janeiro,  and  so  we  visited  some 
sale-rooms,  in  only  one  of  which  his  identity 
was  discovered.  He  listened  critically  to  the 
tone  of  a  number  of  pianos,  but  none  of  them 
seemed  to  satisfy  him. 

"They  are  fine  instruments,"  he  remarked 
after  we  had  come  out  of  one  of  the  establish- 
ments; "but  none  of  them  pleases  me  so  much 
as  that  which  Madam  King  used  last  night. 

108 


Aside  from  the  magnificent  playing,  it  seemed 
to  me  to  possess  a  brilliancy  and  responsiveness 
which  were  remarkable.  Could  it  not  be  pur- 
chased for  me?" 

"Most  assuredly,"  I  answered.  "If  you  say 
so,  I  shall  to-day  arrange  with  Steinway  and 
Sons  concerning  it." 

Thus  it  was  that  the  fine  instrument  which  I 
had  provided  for  the  concert  was  shipped  to  the 
royal  palace  in  Brazil. 

In  the  course  of  our  conversation  that  morn- 
ing his  majesty  told  me  that  the  Empress  had 
brought  from  South  America  a  young  girl 
named  Esmeralda  Cervantes,  who  was  con- 
sidered Brazil's  best  harpist. 

"Would  she  not  play  at  one  of  the  concerts?" 
I  quickly  asked,  on  fire  with  this  new  idea. 
"The  people  of  Philadelphia  would  be  delighted 
to  hear  her." 

His  majesty  seemed  pleased  at  the  sugges- 
tion, and  replied  that  it  might  be  arranged.  He 
said  he  would  send  me  word  that  afternoon. 
He  also  informed  me  that  the  Empress  and  he 
would  like  to  attend  the  two  remaining  con- 
certs. 

Later  in  the  day  I  met  Senorita  Cervantes. 
She  was  an  attractive  girl  of  about  sixteen, 
with  a  sweet  smile  and  big  eyes  full  of  music. 

109 


We  had  a  long  talk,  in  the  course  of  which  I 
learned  what  best  she  liked  to  play,  and  in 
accordance  with  her  wishes  arranged  a  pro- 
gram for  her.  After  leaving  her  I  hurried  to 
my  printer,  and  gave  directions  to  have  in- 
serted in  the  programs  which  were  being  pre- 
pared for  the  last  concert,  on  Saturday  night, 
not  only  the  numbers  which  my  little  Spanish 
harpist  was  to  render,  but  also  these  words: 
"Third  Operatic  Concert,  Under  the  Imperial 
Patronage  of  Dom  Pedro,  Emperor  of  Brazil, 
in  Honor  of  Senorita  Cervantes." 

That  night,  when  the  orchestra  began  "The 
Star  Spangled  Banner,"  the  Emperor,  recog- 
nizing it  at  once  as  the  national  air,  rose  to  his 
feet.  He  was  followed  by  the  Empress  and  all 
the  others  of  the  royal  party.  In  those  days  it 
was  not  the  general  custom  in  this  country  to 
stand  when  the  national  air  was  played,  and 
for  a  few  seconds  practically  no  other  persons 
in  the  house  were  on  their  feet.  But  suddenly 
the  significance  of  the  Emperor's  act  burst  on 
the  audience,  and  it  rose  en  masse.  Many 
sang,  and  at  the  end  everybody  cheered  the 
Emperor,  who  stood  bowing  and  smiling  for 
several  minutes.  The  concert  terminated  in  a 
swelling  note  of  triumph,  which  well  expressed 
my  own  feelings.  My  work  was  done,  and  I 

no 


had  scored  a  success  far  beyond  my  expecta- 
tions, thanks  to  the  Emperor  of  Brazil. 

In  the  course  of  their  visit  to  the  United 
States  he  and  the  Empress  went  to  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  and  were  guests  for  some  days 
of  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow.  In  the 
modest  cottage  of  the  poet  Dom  Pedro  ceased 
to  be  an  Emperor.  He  left  the  trappings  of 
his  exalted  state  behind  him,  and  became  the 
subject  of  a  king  of  poetry. 

His  'Sojourn  at  the  house  of  Longfellow  re- 
minds me  of  an  afternoon  I  myself  spent  there. 
Joseph  H.  Tooker  and  I  went  to  Cambridge  to 
offer  the  poet  a  considerable  sum  of  money  for 
a  series  of  readings  from  his  poems.  He  was 
on  a  little  veranda  at  the  rear  of  his  house 
when  we  arrived,  and  we  were  invited  out 
there.  Two  daughters  were  with  him,  beauti- 
ful young  girls  with  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  curls. 
The  poet  listened  attentively,  while  we  un- 
folded our  business  proposition  to  him  and  em- 
phasized the  fact  that  the  people  throughout 
the  land  would  flock  to  hear  him.  I  suggested 
that  he  could  lay  aside  the  money  for  his 
daughters.  His  grave  eyes  lighted  up  at  this. 

"It  is  large  pay,  gentlemen,"  he  exclaimed, 
"so  large  that  I  fear  I  could  never  earn  it. 
The  prospect  of  trying  almost  frightens  me. 

111 


But  I  will  confess  that  I  am  tempted.  Money 
does  not  often  come  to  a  literary  man  in  such 
an  avalanche,  you  know.  I  shall  communicate 
with  my  publishers.  If  they  are  inclined  to 
view  the  proposition  favorably,  we  can  discuss 
it  in  further  detail.  And  now  let  us  forget 
business  for  the  time.  I  want  you  to  try  some 
pf  my  currant  wine.  You  gentlemen  from 
New- York  are  connoisseurs ;  but  I  think  you'll 
like  this  home  product.  I  brewed  it  myself." 

One  of  the  daughters  brought  a  pitcher  of 
the  wine,  and  we  sat  with  our  glasses  and 
listened  to  gentle  talk  that  was  elevating  and 
full  of  kindly  humor.  It  was  talk  of  rather  a 
different  kind  from  that  we  were  accustomed 
to  hear  in  the  theatrical  mart  of  New- York, 
and  it  refreshed  us. 

We  left  at  last,  feeling  that  we  had  had  a 
most  delightful  afternoon,  even  if  the  success 
of  our  mission  by  no  means  was  assured.  In 
about  a  week  I  received  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Longfellow,  saying  that  he  had  decided  not  to 
attempt  to  read  his  own  poems.  He  felt  that 
he  ought  to  be  satisfied,  he  wrote,  if  other  peo- 
ple read  them.  Our  trip  to  Cambridge  brought 
us  no  financial  fruit,  but  it  has  been  one  of  my 
pleasantest  memories. 

Shortly  after  my  effort  to  persuade  Long- 
112 


fellow  to  publicly  read  his  poetry  I  became  ab- 
sorbed in  arrangements  to  take  a  musical  com- 
bination to  Australia.  My  artists  were  to  be 
Clara  Louise  Kellogg,  Annie  Louise  Gary, 
August  Wilhelmj  the  violinists,  and  Rafael 
Joseffy  the  pianist,  all  of  whom  were  then  at 
the  zenith  of  their  fame.  I  planned  to  give 
Australia  a  musical  treat  such  as  she  had  never 
had  before,  and  then  to  move  triumphantly  on 
to  London.  The  project  meant  a  trip  around 
the  world.  I  was  enthusiastic  over  it,  and  so 
were  my  artists,  all  except  Joseffy.  Yet  he  was 
the  individual  whom  I  desired  most  of  all  to 
take  along.  This  special  predilection  for  the 
pianist  was  not  because  his  musical  genius  was 
superior  to  that  of  the  others  in  my  little 
group,  but  because  of  some  remarks  that 
Colonel  Chickering  made  to  me  one  morning. 

"I'll  back  this  tour,"  he  said,  "if  Joseffy  ac- 
companies you  and  you  take  the  usual  meas- 
ures to  let  the  public  know  that  he  is  using  our 
pianos.  Show  me  a  contract  with  him  for  the 
concerts,  and  I  at  once  shall  deposit  in  your 
name  twelve  thousand  dollars,  and  send  an- 
other twelve  thousand  to  Australia  if  you 
need  it." 

Well,  Joseffy  was  coy,  a  cornucopia  of 
promises  to  be  sure,  but  a  dry  ink-well  when 

113 


it  came  to  writing  his  name  at  the  bottom  of 
a  contract.  Days  after  the  agreement  with  the 
others  had  been  signed  I  was  dining,  lunching 
and  breakfasting  with  Joseffy  in  my  endeavors 
to  get  him  to  dash  off  his  signature  on  a  paper 
I  always  had  handy  in  my  pocket. 

At  each  of  our  meetings  I  devoted  myself 
to  tactfully  leading  up  to  the  psychological 
moment  when  the  paper  could  be  produced. 
Time  and  again  the  moment  came,  and  time 
and  again  Joseffy  would  gracefully  wave  his 
long,  artistic  hands  and  reply:  "Not  to-day, 
Morrissey;  to-morrow." 

The  thing  had  become  an  exaggerated  case 
of  "To-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to-mor- 
row," and  I  think  I  was  beginning  to  take  on 
a  Teutonic  accent  and  cast  of  countenance  from 
much  patronage  of  the  German  restaurants 
that  Joseffy  liked,  when  one  day  he  announced 
to  me: 

"I  regret  it,  Morrissey,  but  it  is  now  too  late 
to  sign  your  contract.  If  you  must  know  the 
truth,  I  have  just  completed  negotiations  with 
some  other  people  to  play  only  on  their  pianos." 

"Who  would  think,  Joseffy,"  I  said  sadly, 
"that  genius  could  be  so  commercial?" 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  answered  with  a  smile,   "but 

114 


you  know  that  even  genius  likes  a  warm  bird 
and  a  cold  bottle." 

That  globe-girdling  tour  was  never  taken. 

A  few  weeks  later,  instead  of  being  a 
musical  missionary  in  the  antipodes,  I  was  on 
a  concert  trip  in  Pennsylvania,  with  Signor 
Brignoli  as  my  star.  One  moonlight  night 
when  our  train  was  standing  on  the  track  at 
Titusville,  Brignoli,  who  was  of  an  inquiring 
turn  of  mind,  stepped  out  to  the  platform  of 
our  car,  the  rear  one,  to  take  a  look  around. 

He  was  lighting  a  cigarette,  when  the  train 
gave  a  jerk,  due  to  some  switching  operation. 
Brignoli  lost  his  balance  and  toppled  over 
backward.  I  heard  his  anguished  cry  and  ran 
frantically  to  the  door.  The  train  was  moving, 
and  the  singer  was  lying  prone  on  a  bank  of 
dirt. 

"Stop  the  train,  -stop  the  train!"  I  shouted. 
"Brignoli's  killed !"  Everybody  rushed  out  to 
the  platform.  The  women  began  to  weep  and 
wring  their  hands,  and  the  conductor  came 
running  back  excitedly.  Before  the  train  had 
stopped,  and  just  as  several  of  us  were  about 
to  leap  from  the  platform  we  saw  the  prostrate 
form  on  the  bank  bestir  itself  and  loom  up 
against  the  sky.  Then,  to  our  astonishment, 
we  heard  the  hearty  tones  of  Brignoli's  voice 

til 


swell  out  on  the  night  air  in  "Di  quella  pira" 
from  the  opera  "II  Trovatore."  He  came 
toward  us,  a  shadowy  figure  in  the  darkness, 
singing  lustily.  Suddenly  he  turned  his  face 
fervently  toward  the  stars,  and  exclaimed  with 
great  solemnity: 

"I  thank  thee,  Lord !  My  body  has  suffered 
grievously ;  but  the  voice,  ah,  the  voice !  has 
not  been  injured." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Brignoli  was  practically 
unhurt,  thanks  to  the  bank  of  soft  earth  upon 
which  he  fell.  That  his  precious  voice  was  un- 
impaired was  speedily  made  doubly  evident  by 
the  sonorous  maledictions  he  showered  on  the 
train  and  all  connected  with  it. 


uo 


FANNY   DAVENPORT 


MLLE.  AIMEE 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  FROST  IN  GALVESTON. 

The  actor's  snug  harbor  is  New- York.  "The 
road"  is  his  tempestuous  sea.  Much  too  often 
to  suit  his  pleasure  he  must  bid  farewell  to  the 
lights  of  Broadway  and  go  on  journeys  of 
vicissitude  in  the  great  interior.  The  theatrical 
bark  may  rise  triumphant  on  waves  of  ap- 
plause, or  winds  of  adverse  criticism  may  cast 
it  up  on  some  distant  strand.  Which  it  will  be 
the  actor  or  manager  is  never  sure.  That  un- 
certainty and  variety  which  give  zest  to  life 
may  be  found  in  plenty  "on  the  road." 

Galveston,  Texas,  at  best,  is  a  long  way  from 
Broadway;  but  there  was  a  time,  back  in  the 
days  of  Augustin  Daly's  management  of  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Theater,  when  the  distance 
seemed  to  me  about  equal  to  the  circumference 
of  the  globe. 

My  Texas  experience  really  began  at  the 
Cer man  Theater,  on  East-Fourteenth-st.,  New- 
York,  where  Fanny  Davenport  and  I  sat  in  a 
box  one  night  and  laughed  so  at  a  comedy 
called  "Ultimo,"  that  at  the  fall  of  the  final 
curtain  we  sought  out  the  manager  and  made 
him  an  offer  for  the  English  rights,  on  behalf 
of  Mr.  Daly.  He  accepted.  Under  the  name 

119 


of  "The  Big  Bonanza/'  the  play  was  put  on  at 
the  Fifth  Avenue  Theater,  where  it  scored  an 
immediate  and  great  success. 

On  the  strength  of  this,  already  feeling  the 
money  of  the  good  people  of  the  "provinces"  in 
our  pockets,  J.  C.  Duff  and  I  obtained  Mr. 
Daly's  consent  to  organize  a  second  company 
for  a  tour.  We  selected  Sara  Jewett  for  lead- 
ing woman,  May  Nunez  for  ingenue,  Owen 
Fawcett  for  chief  comedian,  and  James  Hardie 
for  the  handsome  lover. 

With  every  part  in  competent  hands  we 
started  for  the  "Sunny  South/'  where  we 
knew  there  would  be  smiling  skies  and  thought 
there  would  be  smiling  audiences.  But  some- 
how the  latter  did  not  seem  to  go  into  ecstasies 
over  "The  Big  Bonanza."  In  New-Orleans, 
for  instance,  where  one  would  never  dream  of 
such  a  thing,  we  encountered  a  biting  "frost." 
Cold,  I  believe,  has  a  tendency  to  contract 
things.  I  know  that  it  had  shriveled  up  our 
bank-roll  by  the  time  we  got  to  Galveston. 

This  then  was  only  a  "three-day"  city,  not 
being  large  enough  to  support  an  attraction 
for  a  longer  time.  At  the  end  of  the  week  we 
still  were  there,  and  after  the  all-too-brief 
labor  of  "counting  up"  on  Saturday  night  Duff 
said  to  me: 

120 


"The  question  is,  Morrissey,  how  are  we 
going  to  get  out  of  town?" 

He  was  right — that  was  the  question — but 
I  appeared  not  to  notice  the  remark,  that  eve- 
ning having  exhausted  all  my  genial  repartee 
on  the  hotel  manager,  who  had  mentioned 
something  about  a  little  bill. 

All  the  next  week  we  played  in  Galveston, 
not  because  we  wanted  to,  or  because  the  peo- 
ple were  hankering  to  have  us,  but  because  we 
had  nothing  else  to  do.  Our  performances  had 
assumed  the  appearance  of  dress  rehearsals. 
The  bright  lights  in  front  looked  on;  but  that 
was  about  all.  We  distributed  passes  with  a 
lavish  hand  in  endeavors  to  "dress  the  house" ; 
but  this  dress  grew  more  and  more  scanty, 
and  the  company  began  to  ask  satirically  if  we 
were  to  make  our  permanent  homes  in  Galves- 
ton. We  were  on  our  third  week  there  when 
I  decided  on  a  heroic  move.  I  had  mentioned 
it  to  Duff,  and  he  had  answered  with  one 
word :  "Absurd !"  But  he  had  nothing  to  sug- 
gest himself,  so  I  called  a  meeting  of  the  com- 
pany to  announce  my  project. 

"It's  plain,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  I  began, 
"that  we  have  exhausted  this  community.  We 
can't  stay  here  much  longer." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  broke  in  Fawcett.  "The 

121 


hotel  people  are  cold ;  but  the  weather's  warm. 
I  suppose  that  soon  now  there  will  be  good 
sleeping  on  the  beach." 

"You  are  the  funniest  when  you  are  silent, 
Fawcett,"  I  remarked.  "If  you  want  to  talk, 
if  you  have  any  real  ideas  to  offer,  take  the 
floor/' 

"I'd  rather  take  the  train,"  he  answered. 

"My  proposal,"  I  went  on,  "is  that  since  we 
apparently  have  failed  at  acting,  we  try  our 
hand  at  singing.  We  must  do  something;  so 
let  us  sing."  A  burst  of  laughter  greeted  this." 

"I  mean  it,"  I  declared.  "In  happier  days 
I've  heard  you  sing,  Miss  Jewett,  and  you 
too,  Miss  Nunez.  Your  rich  contralto  voice 
should  thrill  these  Texans.  You,  Hardie,  have 
a  lovely  tenor.  Don't  deny  it.  Haven't  we  all 
heard  the  trills  issue  from  your  dressing- 
room?  As  for  you,  Fawcett,  you  have  a  deep 
basso  buffo  that  may  give  rise  to  a  public  sub- 
scription to  send  us  up  to  Houston." 

"You're  good  to  say  so,"  answered  Fawcett; 
"but  I  think  I'll  confine  my  musical  efforts  to 
whistling  for  my  salary." 

"Well,"  I  continued,  laughing  in  spite  of 
myself,  "you'll  all  be  whistling  for  not  only 
your  salaries,  but  for  your  suppers,  unless  we 
do  something.  I  think  that  a  grand  operatic 

122 


concert  by  this  company  of  stranded  actors  will 
appeal  to  the  Texan  sense  of  humor  and  fill 
enough  of  the  empty  seats  to  terminate  this 
stand." 

When  I  had  finished  everybody  declared  that 
they  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  my  foolish 
plan;  but,  proceeding  on  the  principle  that 
birds  that  can  sing  and  won't  must  be  made  to, 
I  announced  the  concert  in  the  Galveston 
papers.  As  I  had  anticipated,  the  writers 
seemed  to  think  it  amusing  that,  in  our  dis- 
tress, we  should  turn  to  song. 

The  facetious  articles  at  first  made  my 
artists  all  the  more  determined  that  they  would 
not  stand  up  to  be  made  butts  for  ridicule ;  but 
I  pointed  out  to  them  that  with  the  announce- 
ments out  and  the  tickets  on  sale,  they  would 
have  to  sing  or  be  mobbed,  and  so  they  began 
to  practise.  At  the  last  rehearsal  I  made  a 
few  remarks. 

"Sing  to-night  as  you  never  did  before/'  I 
admonished  them.  "Sing  in  a  way  that  will 
carry  them  away,  and  will  also  carry  us  away." 

When  the  doors  were  opened  for  the  concert, 
and  the  young  men  of  Galveston  began  to 
crowd  in,  Duff  was  anxious. 

"They  look  as  if  they  intended  to  have 
some  fun  with  us  to-night,"  he  exclaimed.  "Ke- 
rn 


member,  Jimmie,  I'm  not  responsible.  This 
thing  is  on  your  head." 

The  audience  was  big  enough.  I  saw  that 
we  should  be  able  to  leave  town  in  the  morn- 
ing; but  as  that  noisy  crowd  filed  in,  even  I 
began  to  think  that  it  would  be  better  after  all, 
if  we  could  go  at  once. 

After  the  overture  the  orchestra  gave  a 
selection,  which  was  interrupted  by  only  an 
occasional  hoot  or  catcall.  When  Miss  Nunez 
appeared  and  sang  "The  Old  Folks  at  Home/' 
the  house  became  quiet,  and  remained  so,  ex- 
cept for  genuine  applause,  when  Miss  Jewett 
sang  "Waiting."  I  thought  that  we  were  saved, 
and  ventured  to  appear  in  the  lobby,  wearing 
the  broad  smile  of  an  impresario  on  a  night  of 
triumph.  It  was  now  Fawcett's  turn  to  en- 
tertain. 

He  stepped  down  to  the  footlights  with  an 
air  of  much  confidence,  and  announced  smil- 
ingly that  he  would  recite  Shakespeare's 
"Seven  Ages."  He  was  opening  his  mouth  to 
begin  the  first  lines,  when  a  great  howl  went 
up.  The  house  had  broken  loose  at  last.  Faw- 
cett  stood  there  helpless  for  a  moment,  trying 
to  speak,  while  from  every  side  came  jeering 
shouts.  There  was  a  bedlam  of  noise,  I  rushed 

124 


around  to  the  wings  and  beckoned  to  our  com- 
edian to  come  off. 

"What'll  we  do,  what'll  we  do?"  cried  Duff. 
"This  is  awful!  For  Heaven's  sake,  Jimmie, 
go  out  and  tell  them  that  we'll  give  them  their 
money  back,  or  they'll  do  us  violence !" 

"Not  on  your  life,"  I  declared.  "We'll  ring 
down  the  curtain  if  we  have  to,  but  not  a 
penny  of  their  money  shall  they  get." 

Fawcett  was  still  on  the  stage.  With  entire 
self-possession  he  stood  and  waited,  as  if  well 
content  to  let  them  enjoy  themselves  in  this 
way,  if  they  cared  to.  The  truth  was,  he  pos- 
sessed an  innate  ability  in  controlling  audi- 
ences, and  by  degrees  our  noisy  friends  in 
front  began  to  feel  his  influence.  At  last  the 
tumult  died  away. 

"Boys,"  he  remarked,  during  a  slight  pause, 
"you  have  had  your  fun;  now  let  me  have 
mine.  I  am  not  a  comedian — you  will  admit 
that — and  I  am  not  a  singer — you  would  know 
that  if  I  tried  to  sing.  But  I  always  have  had 
an  idea  that  I  should  be  good  in  Shakespearean 
roles,  and  I  want  to  get  your  fair  judgment  on 
the  question.  Won't  you  listen  to  me  for  a 
moment  ?  Thank  you." 

Almost  before  they  realized  it,  Fawcett  be- 
gan again  on  the  "Seven  Ages,"  to  a  soft  ac- 

125 


companiment  by  the  orchestra,  and  almost  in- 
stantly had  become  impressive.  There  was  not 
a  sound  in  the  audience  when  he  ended  with 
the  words:  "The  last  scene  of  all  in  this 
strange,  eventful  history  is  second  childishness 
and  mere  oblivion :  sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans 
taste,  sans  everything."  Fawcett  paused,  as- 
sumed his  most  comic  smile,  and  added :  "Sans 
everything,  including  salary." 

The  house  broke  into  real  laughter,  and  the 
rest  of  us,  watching  nervously  in  the  wings, 
knew  that  our  comedian  was  master  of  the  sit- 
uation. He  went  on  in  a  humorous  speech,  in 
which  he  remarked  that  Miss  Jewett  had  sung 
"Waiting"  because  she  had  been  waiting  so 
long  in  Galveston;  that  Miss  Nunez  had  sung 
"The  Old  Folks  at  Home"  because  away  down 
here  in  Texas  she  had  been  home-sick,  and 
lastly,  that  he  had  recited  "Seven  Ages"  be- 
cause it  had  seemed  at  least  seven  ages  since  he 
had  been  in  Galveston.  At  the  end  he  said : 
"And  now,  boys,  we  are  going  to  say  good- 
night. We've  done  our  best,  and  on  the  whole 
you  haven't  treated  us  so  badly.  I  believe  that 
you  are  good  fellows,  after  all,  and  you  would 
find  that  we  are  if  you  knew  us  better.  The 
next  time  any  of  you  run  over  to  New- York, 

126 


just  look  up  Owen  Fawcett,  and  you'll  see  the 
town  in  proper  shape." 

There  was  a  great  burst  of  applause.  Owen 
bowed  and  made  his  escape  quickly  to  the 
wings.  James  Hardie  then  sang  delightfully. 
Finally  the  orchestra  swung  into  a  lively  air, 
and  the  curtain  slid  down. 

Behind  the  scenes  we  showered  gratitude 
and  congratulations  on  all  those  who  had  taken 
part  in  the  concert,  and  had  been  equal  to  the 
emergency.  Then  the  artists  made  hasty 
changes  in  their  dressing-rooms,  and  we  made 
our  way  to  the  hotel. 

It  was  not  long  afterwards  that  we  were 
safe  on  Broadway. 


This  was  not  the  only  occasion  upon  which 
I  failed  to  find  the  "Sunny  South"  entirely 
benign.  Once  in  New-Orleans,  when  the  code 
of  honor  was  still  to  some  extent  in  vogue 
there,  I  was  challenged  to  a  duel.  Our  play 
was  "Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  with  Frederick 
Warde  and  Rose  Eytinge  in  the  name  parts. 
One  night,  in  the  strong  scene  in  which  Cleo- 
patra falls  into  Antony's  arms  when  he  returns 
from  the  wars,  I  happened  to  be  occupying  a 
seat,  and  at  the  dramatic  moment  just  before 
the  end  of  the  act,  when  the  house  was  hushed, 

127 


I  had  my  sensibilities  rudely  jarred  by  a  ro- 
bust laugh,  which  came  from  just  behind  me. 

At  the  fall  of  the  curtain  I  turned  and  in- 
formed the  man  whom  I  knew  to  be  guilty  of 
the  breach  that  if  he  didn't  know  how  to  be- 
have himself  in  the  theater  he  had  better 
leave  it. 

With  this  I  left  my  seat  and  went  into  the 
lobby,  where  I  joined  General  Beauregard, 
famous  for  his  services  on  the  Confederate  side 
in  the  Civil  War,  and  Nat  Burbank  of  "The 
New-Orleans  Picayune."  To  my  surprise,  I 
saw  that  the  man  to  whom  I  had  spoken,  ac- 
companied by  two  others,  was  close  behind. 

"Sir,  you  have  insulted  me!"  he  hissed  with 
a  French  accent.  "I  will  fight  you.  Select 
your  second.  This  gentleman  will  act  for  me. 
Let  the  meeting  be  arranged  at  once."  He 
held  out  his  card. 

I  took  it,  tore  it  in  two  and  threw  it  at  his 
feet,  at  the  same  time  turning  my  back  on  him. 
I  heard  a  slight  scuffle,  and  glancing  around 
saw  that  my  French  enemy,  speechless  with 
rage,  was  straining  in  the  grasp  of  his  friends 
to  get  at  me. 

"Come,  Morrissey,"  exclaimed  General 
Beauregard,  catching  me  by  the  arm,  "this  is 

128 


serious.  You  must  get  away  from  here.  Your 
fire-eating  friend  will  try  to  shoot  you." 

We  took  seats  in  the  cafe,  and  out  of  the 
corner  of  my  eye  I  saw  the  Frenchmen  lead 
their  infuriated  countryman  out  through  the 
main  entrance.  The  General  and  Burbank  ap- 
peared grave. 

"I  think  you  will  have  to  fight  him,"  said  the 
former  eyeing  me  critically.  "Are  you  a  pretty 
good  marksman  ?" 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  I  exclaimed.  "I'm  from 
New-York." 

"I  know,"  the  general  answered;  "but  now 
you  are  in  New-Orleans.  He's  of  one  of  the 
best  families,  and  your  tearing  up  his  card  was 
a  deadly  insult.  He  won't  rest  till  it's  avenged 
with  swords  or  pistols.  It's  the  code  among 
gentlemen  down  here,  and  unless  you  accept 
his  challenge  you  had  better  leave  town  to- 
morrow morning." 

I  wiped  my  fevered  brow,  and  informed  the 
General  that  I  would  leave  the  case  all  to  him. 

"I  suppose  I  may  assume  then,"  he  re- 
marked, "that  I  am  your  second.  Very  well. 
If  you  will  excuse  me  I  shall  confer  at  once 
with  the  other  side.  The  early  morning  is  the 
usual  time.  The  weapons  we  can  discuss  a 
little  later." 

129 


General  Beauregard  was  gone  a  full  half- 
hour,  and  in  the  interval  Burbank  entertained 
me  with  tales  of  duels  of  the  past,  in  which 
much  blood  was  shed. 

"You  had  better  choose  pistols,  Morrissey," 
he  advised  me,  "because  your  antagonist  is  an 
expert  with  the  sword — and  yet,  come  to  think 
of  it,  he's  said  to  be  excellent  with  the  pistol 
too.  But  he'll  be  so  angry  that  you  may  be 
able  to  hit  him  first.  Don't  try  to  spare  him, 
because  he  won't  be  so  considerate.  These 
things  are  hushed  up  down  here.  There  is 
simply  a  quiet  funeral." 

I  thanked  Burbank  for  his  kind  encourage- 
ment and  advice;  but  I  didn't  like  his  manner. 
There  was  a  gleam  of  pleasure  in  his  eyes 
that  I  thought  was  in  the  worst  of  taste  on  this 
occasion. 

Suddenly  General  Beauregard's  form 
loomed  in  the  doorway,  and  behind  him  was 
the  man  who  wanted  my  life,  accompanied  by 
his  two  companions. 

"The  meeting-place  has  been  arranged,"  an- 
nounced the  General  when  he  reached  the  table. 
"It  is  to  be  right  here  and  now.  Mr.  Morrissey, 
permit  me  to  present  Messieurs  Blank  and 
Blank  and  Blank.  They  have  assured  me  that 
the  laugh  was  unintentional,  and  I  assured 

130 


them  that  you,  as  the  manager  of  the  company, 
was  prompted  only  by  a  sense  of  duty.  Sit 
down,  gentlemen,  and  let  us  have  supper.  I 
had  no  intention  from  the  start  of  permitting 
you  gentlemen  to  fight  a  duel.  I  suppose,  Mr. 
Morrissey,  that  Mr.  Burbank  has  reassured 
you  during  my  absence." 

The  latter  began  to  laugh,  and  the  General 
joined  him.  I  saw  then  for  the  first  time  that 
the  two  had  been  playing  a  kind  of  grim  joke 
on  me.  A  little  later  we  adjourned  to  the 
Varieties  Club. 


There  was  another  time,  in  a  Western  city, 
when  my  friends  told  me  that  I  would  be  a 
target  for  gun-play  if  I  wasn't  careful.  I  was 
business  manager  for  the  concert  tour  of 
Sarasate,  the  famous  violinist,  and  D'Albert, 
who  was  almost  equally  well-known  as  a 
pianist,  and  one  night  two  cow-boys  in  the 
complete  outfit  of  the  plains — slouch  hats, 
cartridge  belts  and  righ-heeled  boots  with 
spurs — rode  up  to  the  theater  entrance.  The 
concert  was  half-over  and  the  box-office  closed, 
but  they  swaggered  up  to  the  window,  and  one 
of  them  said : 

"Say,  pardner,  we  want  to  see  The  Brass 
Monkey/  Is  this  it?" 

131 


"No,"  I  answered,  "that's  down  the  street; 
but  we  have  something  here  that's  a  hundred 
times  better — the  finest  music  in  the  world." 

"Well,  we'll  take  your  word  for  it,  and  buy 
the  chips.  Pass  Jem  out." 

"Say,  Morrissey,"  exclaimed  the  house  man- 
ager when  they  had  gone  in,  "this  is  not  the 
kind  of  entertainment  those  fellows  are  looking 
for.  They'll  be  pretty  sore  on  you  when  they 
come  out,  and  as  their  kind  pretty  nearly  own 
this  town  when  they  come  in  from  the  ranges, 
they're  likely  to  try  a  little  target-practice 
around  your  feet." 

I  laughed  at  this,  and  was  standing  in  the 
lobby  when  the  last  strains  of  the  music  died 
away.  Suddenly  I  felt  a  thump  on  the  back 
and  heard  the  loud  voice  of  one  of  the  cow- 
boys in  my  ear. 

"Say,  pard,  we'd  started  to  take  in  'The 
Brass  Monkey,'  but  your  show  is  good  enough 
for  us.  Thunderin'  Moses !  but  that  fellow 
could  make  his  fiddle  talk.  We  couldn't  get 
him  out  to  a  ranch  dance,  could  we?  No? 
Well,  we're  much  obliged  anyway." 


132 


HORTENSE   RHEA 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A  BIRTH  ON  A  TRAIN. 

The  way  of  the  manager  often  is  hard.  The 
road  he  travels  is  beset  with  pitfalls,  and  now 
and  then  he  is  bound  to  stumble.  Perhaps  a 
Good  Samaritan  may  journey  along  and  ex- 
tend him  a  helping  hand.  If  so,  he  is  lucky, 
especially  if  the  Good  Samaritan  happens  to 
be  a  Eugene  Field. 

I  had  Mile.  Rhea  in  Chicago,  and  one  night 
after  the  performance,  in  the  course  of  a  little 
supper  at  which  Field  was  present,  I  took  oc- 
casion to  bemoan  my  lot. 

"I'm  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do,"  I  said, 
"We  open  in  St.  Louis  next  Monday  night,  and 
my  representative  ought  to  be  down  there  an- 
nouncing the  coming  of  Mile.  Rhea.  Instead 
of  this,  he's  flying  back  to  New- York  as  fast 
as  the  train  will  take  him,  with  his  feelings 
much  injured  by  a  few  remarks  I  made  to  him 
this  morning.  It's  impossible  to  pick  up  a 
good  man  at  a  moment's  notice.  With  no 
proper  announcements  in  St  Louis,  we  are  sure 
to  play  to  losing  business." 

"Jimmie,  you're  a  pessimist,"  said  Field,  gaz- 
ing at  me  quizzically  from  across  the  table. 

135 


"You  wrong  Chicago  when  you  say  that  it  is 
impossible  to  find  in  this  town  artists  in  your 
game  of  holding  out  alluring  bait  to  a  confiding 
public.  Why,  in  Chicago  they  grow  on  every 
bushr 

"Then  pick  one  for  me,"  I  answered  quickly. 

"Well,"  drawled  Field,  gazing  thoughtfully 
into  the  smoke  from  his  cigar,  "as  a  loyal 
citizen  of  Chicago  I  naturally  have  a  grudge 
against  St.  Louis,  and  I  was  just  thinking  that 
I  might  run  down  there  myself  to  induce  them 
to  attend  your  show." 

"Field,  you're  joking !"  I  exclaimed. 

"Well,  if  I  am,"  he  answered,  "I  think  it  is 
a  kind  of  grim  joke  on  St.  Louis.  But,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  am  as  serious  as  Hamlet.  Do 
I  get  the  job?" 

"Do  you  get  it?"  I  cried.  "If  you  really  are 
not  joking,  I  should  say  you  did !" 

"Alright  then,"  he  said,  reaching  out  his 
long  hand  to  me,  "it  is  a  gentlemen's  agree- 
ment. I'll  stand  not  on  the  order  of  my  going, 
but  will  go  to-morrow  morning.  Give  me  your 
instructions  now,  so  that  I  may  devote  the  re- 
mainder of  the  evening  to  packing  my  tooth- 
brush and  bidding  my  creditors  farewell." 

A  trip  like  this  did  not  interfere  with  Field's 
writing  his  daily  column  of  "Sharps  and  Flats" 

136 


for  "The  Chicago  News."  Indeed,  it  took  him 
into  a  fresh  sphere  for  copy.  He  was  at  the 
train  the  next  morning  in  lively  mood,  and 
bade  me  good-by  gaily.  Thus  it  was  that  I 
acquired  a  new  advance  agent. 

From  the  train  I  went  at  once  to  the  tele- 
graph office  and  indited  to  the  dramatic  editors 
/of  the  St.  Louis  newspapers  a  message  which 
read  like  this : 

"Eugene  Field  has  been  turned  loose  on 
your  town  as  publicity  purveyor  pro  tern,  for 
the  Rhea  company,  and  arrives  to-night  on 
the  seven  o'clock  train.  Please  give  him  a 
wide  berth  in  your  columns — that  is,  give  him 
plenty  of  space  in  which  to  toss  about." 

Eugene  of  course  was  well-known  by  rep- 
utation in  St.  Louis,  and  I  rather  opined,  as  I 
handed  my  telegram  to  the  operator,  to  be 
duplicated  to  the  various  newspapers,  that  he 
would  find  plenty  of  opportunity  to  show  his 
mettle  as  a  press  agent.  That  was  all  that  I 
wanted  him  to  do.  For  billing  the  town  my 
plan  was  to  send  our  paper  to  a  boss  bill-poster 
in  whom  I  had  confidence,  and  run  down  to 
St.  Louis  myself  a  little  later  in  the  week,  just 
as  soon  as  I  could  get  away  conveniently,  to 
look  after  the  details.  And  so  that  day  I  went 
about  my  business  with  a  feeling  of  assurance 

137 


that  the  advent  of  Mile.  Rhea  in  St.  Louis 
would  be  well  heralded  after  all. 

On  the  second  morning  afterward,  when 
Field  had  been  in  St.  Louis  a  day,  I  bought 
that  city's  papers  to  ascertain  what  my  new  ad- 
vance agent  had  accomplished  at  the  beginning 
of  his  campaign.  In  a  moment  my  eyes  had 
caught  the  head-line:  "Reception  to  Eugene 
Field." 

My  eager  reading  of  the  article  informed 
me  that  the  newspaper  men  had  got  up  a  little 
welcome  for  my  representative. 

The  next  morning  I  received  a  telegram 
from  him  to  this  effect :  "If  possible,  come  at 
once.  Shall  expect  you  on  the  seven  o'clock 
train.  You  are  needed  here."  This  was  signed: 
"Eugene  in  the  Field." 

I  telegraphed  that  I  should  be  on  hand,  and 
as  my  train  sped  southward  I  was  consumed 
with  curiosity  as  to  what  "Gene"  might  be 
up  to. 

"Mr.  Morrissey?  Ah!  Yes,  Mr.  Field  has 
been  expecting  you."  said  the  clerk  when  I  ar- 
rived at  the  hotel.  "The  boy  will  show  you  to 
his  room."  As  we  hurried  along  the  corridor, 
the  sound  of  numerous  voices  assailed  my  ears. 
The  boy  paused  before  the  door  from  behind 
which  the  noises  came.  I  knocked,  and  a  sten- 

138 


torian  voice  called:  "Come  in!"  The  door- 
knob was  pulled  out  of  my  grasp  from  the 
other  side,  and  I  stood  dazed  and  blinking  in 
a  flood  of  light,  in  which  I  wonderingly  made 
out  a  long  table,  glistening  with  a  dinner 
service,  and  a  dozen  men  hastily  rising.  At  the 
table's  head,  in  the  center  of  this  festive  scene, 
was  the  lank  form  of  my  friend  "Gene."  On 
his  long  face  was  a  wide  grin. 

"Gentlemen,  the  health  of  Jimmie  Morris- 
sey!"  he  cried.  "You're  just  in  time  to  help 
me  in  my  trouble — my  trouble  in  holding 
within  bounds  these  Apaches  of  the  press. 
And  now  sit  down  in  the  vacant  chair,  oh, 
poor  traveler,  and  regale  thyself  with  food  and 
drink." 

It  was  one  of  the  merriest  gatherings  in 
which  I  ever  assisted.  Field  called  me  the 
guest  of  honor,  and  delivered  an  address  of 
welcome  that  was  a  most  amusing  imitation 
of  pompous  efforts  in  this  direction. 

"But  this  is  play,  Gene,"  I  remarked  to  him 
late  in  the  evening,  when  we  were  breaking 
up.  "Has — has  any  work  been  done?" 

"My  dear  major-general,"  he  replied,  "you 
put  me  in  charge  of  this  campaign,  did  you 
not?  Let  me  assure  you  then  that  this  is  only 
the  skirmish  before  cannonading.  The  am- 

139 


munition  is  in  the  guns.  This  evening  I  am 
just  supplying  the  boys  with  a  little  of  the 
afflatus  that  will  enable  them  to  properly 
touch  off  the  fuses.  Get  up  early  in  the  morn- 
ing and  read  the  papers." 

"Napoleon,"  I  answered  smilingly,  "I  say 
no  more.  You  are  my  superior  officer.  I 
salute  you." 

I  did  get  up  early  to  read  the  papers.  Rhea, 
Rhea,  Rhea !  In  a  dozen  columns  I  read  that 
alluring  name,  and  in  most  of  them  I  rec- 
ognized Field's  deft  hand.  There  was  a  touch 
of  genius  in  the  articles.  What  he  didn't 
know  about  my  star  he  had  imagined.  He 
told  some  strange  tales  about  her — things  that 
must  have  happened  when  she  was  in  some 
somnambulant  state,  for  she  informed  me 
afterward  that  she  had  no  knowledge  of  them. 
But  they  made  most  excellent  reading. 

"Good-morning,  sir !  I  hope  my  efforts  have 
been  satisfactory,  sir,"  Field  said  to  me  in  a 
tone  of  mock  obsequiousness  when  he  came 
down  to  breakfast. 

"Satisfactory?"  I  exclaimed.  "Why,  I 
place  a  new  laurel  wreath  upon  your  intellec- 
tual brow.  You  are  the  world's  greatest 
press  agent." 

"Crown  me  not  thus,"    he    answered.       "I 

140 


would    sink    beneath    the    weight    of    such 
distinction." 

Field's  literary  cannonading  hit  St.  Louis 
hard.  The  people  turned  out  in  droves  to  see 
the  performances  of  Mile.  Rhea.  We  played 
to  overflowing  houses  throughout  the  week. 


Our  next  "stand"  was  to  be  Kansas  City, 
and  because  it  was  his  old  home,  and  because 
his  brother,  Roswell  Field,  was  dramatic 
editor  on  a  paper  there,  Eugene  decided  to 
accompany  us.  "Jimmie  you  strollers  lead 
fascinating  lives,"  he  remarked  one  night.  "I 
think  I'm  stage-struck.  Would  I  make  a 
Hamlet?  Now,  don't  destroy  my  budding 
hopes  by  saying  no.  Allow  me  to  dream  on." 

By  this  time  my  regular  advance  man,  with 
his  plumage  smooth  again,  had  returned  to 
the  fold,  so  we  no  longer  had  a  genius  for  a 
press  agent;  but  we  had  him  for  the  most 
cheery  companion  I  have  ever  known.  Indeed, 
in  Kansas  City  he  was  more  than  that  to  me. 

Mile.  Rhea,  be  it  known,  had  a  fiery  Belgian 
temper,  and  one  evening  she  and  I  had  a  fall- 
ing out,  as  what  star  and  manager  do  not  some- 
times? She  informed  me  that  she  would  play 
that  week,  yes,  but  no  more.  On  Sunday  she 
would  take  the  train  for  New  York,  and  I 

141 


might  fill  her  place — if  I  could.  Meanwhile 
she  would  hold  no  communication  with  me. 
Our  contract?  Nothing  but  a  bit  of  paper. 

The  whole  thing  had  grown  out  of  a  mere 
caprice  on  her  part  which  I  had  seen  fit  not  to 
humor.  But  some  caprices  are  expensive. 
This  one  threatened  to  cost  me  thousands  of 
dollars. 

On  this  account  I  was  blue  when  Field  and  I 
went  into  a  restaurant  near  the  theater  after 
the  performance  the  next  night  to  get  a  sand- 
wich. Mademoiselle,  with  her  chief  supporter 
in  the  feud,  was  sitting  at  another  table.  She 
bowed  to  Field,  whom  she  greatly  liked,  and 
glared  at  me.  After  a  period  of  one-sided  con- 
versation, he  suddenly  said. 

"Jimmie,  it's  a  shame  to  see  you  two  good 
people  sulking  in  opposite  corners  of  the  tem- 
ple. Blessed  is  the  peacemaker!  I'm  going 
to  make  peace  with  her." 

"Make  peace  with  the  deuce !"  I  blurted  out. 

"Well,  that's  my  forte,  you  know,"  answered 
Eugene  with  a  gentle  smile.  "Excuse  me  while 
I  go  to  hold  out  the  olive-branch." 

My  chair  was  sidewise  to  them;  but  out  of 
the  corner  of  my  eye  I  watched  the  process. 

Mademoiselle  raised  her  dark,  eloquent  orbs 
when  my  self-appointed  emissary  approached 

142 


her,  and  smiled  sweetly  at  him.  I  suppose  this 
particularly  gracious  manner  was  to  further 
emphasize  the  frigid  looks  she  had  cast  in  my 
direction.  After  a  moment  of  the  light  banter 
they  were  accustomed  to  exchange,  Field  drew 
his  chair  a  little  nearer  to  hers,  and  leaning  for- 
ward began  to  talk  earnestly. 

Rhea  immediately  drew  back  her  queenly 
head  and  looked  haughtily.  She  frowned,  knit 
her  eyebrows,  made  dramatic  gestures,  and 
spoke  out  in  quick,  excited  tones.  She  was 
tragedy  personified.  You  would  have  thought 
that  Field  was  suggesting  some  dire  deed. 
Through  it  all  he  talked  on  quietly.  At  last  her 
demeanor  became  more  calm.  Her  face  as- 
sumed a  listening,  thoughtful  look.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  his.  I  could  see  that  her  expres- 
sion was  growing  softer.  Finally  she  smiled 
outright.  He  laughed  and  rose.  She  looked 
up  at  him  with  another  smile,  and  a  shrug 
which  seemed  to  mean:  "As  you  will,  my 
lord." 

Field  came  over  and  touched  me  on  the  shoul- 
der. "It's  all  right  now,  old  man.  She  for- 
gives you,  and  thinks  that,  perhaps,  after  all, 
she  herself  may  have  been  a  little  hasty.  She's 
consented  to  dress  a  salad  for  us  in  true  Bel- 
gian style.  The  oil  from  my  olive-branch  will 

143 


be  in  the  mixture.  Come  over,  and  treat  her 
as  if  there  never  had  been  any  yawning  gap  be- 
tween you." 

Thus  was  a  disastrous  parting  of  the  ways 
avoided,  and  for  the  remainder  of  the  tour 
Mile.  Rhea  was  all  graciousness.  When,  at  the 
end  of  the  week,  Field  departed  for  Chicago, 
it  seemed  almost  as  if  there  had  been  a  death 
in  the  company,  he  left  such  a  vacancy. 


I  remember  another  happening  of  the  Rhea 
season  which,  while  it  had  nothing  to  do  with 
my  star,  I  always  have  considered  interesting. 
Incidentally,  it  cost  me  an  overcoat.  Ahead  of 
the  company,  I  was  traveling  alone  in  one  of 
the  Western  States  of  great  prairies.  It  was 
late  in  the  afternoon,  and  tired  of  reading  and 
of  gazing  out  at  the  trackless  plains,  I  was  half- 
dozing,  when  I  heard  the  door  open  and  shut 
quickly,  and  a  man's  voice  ask  anxiously :  "Is 
there  a  doctor  in  this  car  ?" 

Everybody  glanced  up,  but  no  one  confessed 
to  medical  attainments.  A  stalwart  young  fel- 
low in  cow-boy  garb  had  made  the  inquiry. 
He  appeared  as  if  he  could  keep  his  nerve  on 
most  occasions,  but  it  was  plain  that  now  he 
was  excited  and  distressed.  He  repeated  his 
question,  and  gazed  at  us  all  as  if  somehow 

144 


we  were  guilty  in  not  being  doctors.  Realizing 
that  we  could  be  of  no  assistance,  he  rushed 
on  without  giving  any  of  us  a  chance  to  find 
out  what  the  trouble  was.  In  the  car  behind 
us  the  sound  of  his  urgent  question  came 
faintly  to  me:  "Is  there  a  doctor  here?" 

A  moment  later  the  conductor  ran  through 
the  car.  He,  too,  appeared  perturbed,  but  his 
expression  also  was  half  a  grin.  Like  the 
youthful  cow-boy,  he  was  in  too  much  of  a 
hurry  to  answer  questions. 

But  somehow  knowledge  from  a  mysterious 
sound  seemed  to  come  to  the  three  women  in 
our  car.  I  noticed  a  sort  of  fluttering  among 
them.  Each  assumed  an  important,  command- 
ing air,  and  one  by  one  they  disappeared 
through  the  forward  door. 

After  a  considerable  interval,  one  of  them,  a 
motherly-looking  soul,  returned.  "It's  a  girl," 
she  said  softly  to  the  old  man  who  was  her 
traveling  companion,  "and  its  father  says  that 
anyone  who  wishes  to  may  take  a  look  at  it." 

I  was  one  of  those  who  looked,  "It's  a  fine 
one,"  I  declared,  assuming  a  knowing  air. 
"What  are  you  going  to  name  it?" 

"Why — why,"  stammered  the  young  fellow, 
"I  suppose  it's  pretty  soon  to  think  o'  that;  but 

145 


it  did  come  to  me  just  now  that  Wyoming/ 
after  this  State,  would  sound  kind  o'  nice." 

"I  should  say  it  would !"  I  answered  with  en- 
thusiasm. 

"We  get  off  in  a  few  minutes  now,"  re- 
marked the  young  fellow,  after  a  pause. 

"You  don't  mean  it?"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  there's  a  flag  station  down  the  line  a 
piece.  I've  got  a  team  tethered  there.  I  come 
up  to  the  city  this  morning  to  get  my  wife. 
We'll  drive  over  to  the  ranch  house.  It's  only 
about  ten  miles  across  the  plain." 

"Well,  well!"  was  all  I  could  say  to  this. 
Then,  after  a  few  seconds  of  silent  contempla- 
tion, I  remarked :  "But  it's  getting  chilly.  Wy- 
oming will  be  cold." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  replied  the  father,  glanc- 
ing over  at  the  little  bundle  anxiously.  "I 
might  'a'  brought  a  lot  o'  blankets  with  me, 
but  you  see  this  thing  has  been  kind  of  sudden 
and  we  weren't  prepared  for  it  now." 

"Here,"  I  said,  "take  my  overcoat  for  her. 
I  insist,  I've  got  another  in  my  trunk." 

In  a  little  while  the  train  slowed  down  and 
stopped  at  a  small  open  station  that  loomed  up 
conspicuously  on  the  treeless  plain.  Just  be- 
yond was  a  spring  wagon  and  a  pair  of  sleek 
horses  grazing  peacefully. 

146 


The  conductor  held  the  train  while  willing 
hands  helped  Wyoming  and  her  mother  off  and 
stowed  them  in  the  wagon.  Meanwhile  the 
head  of  the  family  had  hitched  up.  He  took 
his  seat  and  waved  us  a  farewell  with  his  whip. 
The  end,  for  us,  of  Wyoming  and  her  parents 
was  the  wagon,  in  silhouette  against  the  glow- 
ing of  western  sky,  moving  slowly  across  the 
prairie  into  nowhere. 


147 


GENERAL  HOWARD  CARROLL 


McKEE    RANKIN 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  MOST  PERFECT  FOOT  IN  BOSTON. 

"Hello,  Jimmie,  you  are  just  the  man  I  want 
to  see."  From  out  of  the  human  stream  on 
Broadway  had  come  suddenly  a  familiar  face, 
the  strong  but  good-natured  one  of  McKee 
Rankin. 

"I've  got  a  new  play  in  my  pocket,"  he  in- 
formed me,  "and  I've  been  intending  to  drop 
in  at  the  theater  to  give  you  the  privilege  of 
hearing  me  read  it." 

"That's  thoughtful  of  you  Rankin,"  I  an- 
swered banteringly.  "I've  no  doubt  your  play 
is  great." 

"You've  hit  the  nail  square  on  the  head, 
Jimmie,"  he  replied  enthusiastically.  "You 
won't  be  sarcastic  when  you  hear  it,  because  it 
is  great." 

"Of  course,  of  course !  I  suppose  you  wrote 
it  yourself,"  I  said. 

"No;  but  I  wish  I  had.  The  author  is  a 
Western  poet,  Joaquin  Miller." 

"Oh,  well,  as  long  as  it's  not  one  of  your 
own  progeny,"  I  laughed,  "I'll  listen.  Well 
fix  the  time  of  my  martyrdom  at  three  this 
afternoon,  if  you  say  so." 

151 


Despite  my  jesting,  I  was  glad  to  listen  to 
any  play  that  McKee  Rankin  considered  good. 
Promptly  at  the  hour,  with  a  big  and  ominous 
roll  of  manuscript  protruding  from  his  side 
pocket,  he  arrived  at  my  office  in  the  Broadway 
Theater,  now  Daly's,  which  I  was  managing 
for  James  C.  Duff,  Augustin  Daly's  brother-in- 
law. 

"Before  you  begin,  Rankin,"  I  said,  "I  want 
to  warn  you  that  I  couldn't  put  the  play  on 
here,  even  if  it  was  a  wonder.  Duff  is  in 
Europe  now,  you  know,  and  he  has  engaged 
Mile.  Aimee  to  open  our  season,  and  she  prob- 
ably will  have  a  long  run." 

"Now,  don't  you  go  trying  to  pile  up  moun- 
tains in  the  path,"  answered  the  actor.  "Just 
give  me  your  close  attention.  This  play,"  he 
added,  clearing  his  voice  to  read,  "is  called  The 
Danites,'  and  it's  about  life  in  the  Rockies." 

Those  of  my  readers  among  the  many  thou- 
sands who  since  have  seen  this  celebrated 
drama  will  recall  the  climax  of  the  third  act, 
where  the  villain,  furiously  jealous  because  the 
girl  he  loves  apparently  has  been  receiving 
attentions  from  Billie  Piper,  entices  that  youth 
into  a  lonely  canon,  with  murder  in  his  heart. 
There  is  a  struggle.  Billie,  greatly  over- 
matched, sinks  down  with  the  exclamation: 

152 


"Please  give  me  time  to  pray!"  The  villain 
seizes  the  white  throat  and  is  bending  it  back 
in  a  death  grip  when  he  suddenly  perceives 
that  Billie  is  a  girl. 

This  description  of  the  scene  sounds  bald 
enough ;  but  the  incidents  leading  up  to  it  make 
it  thrilling,  and  Rankin  had  read  it  with  great 
dramatic  effect. 

When  he  finished  the  act  I  exclaimed :  "You 
needn't  go  on  with  this  play!  I've  heard 
enough.  I'll  cable  Duff  to-day  to  postpone 
Aimee's  engagement.  We'll  produce  this.  It's 
one  of  the  best  I  ever  heard." 

It  was.  Not  only  the  stirring  dramatic  act- 
ing, but  also  the  striking  dialogue,  touched  with 
the  grace  and  strength  of  true  poetry,  filled  me 
with  confidence  that  "The  Danites"  would  make 
a  deep  impression  on  the  public. 

And  yet,  as  every  manager  is  well  aware,  it 
is  difficult  to  forecast  the  drawing  power  of  a 
play  in  manuscript.  When  Rankin  had  gone 
and  I  began  to  look  at  the  subject  coolly,  I 
realized  that  it  was  a  hazardous  proceeding 
for  me  to  cable  Duff  to  change  his  plans.  I 
knew  Aimee  of  old,  knew  that  she  was  bound 
to  make  money  for  us.  With  this  drama,  on 
the  other  hand,  there  was,  after  all,  the  uncer- 
tainty which  attends  every  untried  production, 

153 


however  promising.  The  new  scenery  would 
be  costly.  If,  by  any  chance,  this  play  should 
fail,  I  would  be  undone.  Would  it  be  wise  for 
me  to  assume  the  responsibility  ?  Had  I  better 
not  let  well  enough  alone?  Thus  for  an  hour 
I  reasoned  with  myself,  and  then  cabled  Duff 
that  I  had  found  a  gold  mine. 

This  was  the  way  I  became  first  manager  of 
"The  Danites."  Joaquin  Miller  came  on  for 
the  rehearsals.  With  his  flowing  hair  and  beard 
and  untrammeled  Western  ways,  he  was  a 
picturesque  figure  at  the  theater,  more  pictur- 
esque, in  fact,  than  any  of  our  actors  in  their 
make-up,  and  I  used  to  feel  that  I  should  like 
to  "stage"  him  just  as  he  was.  But  after  a 
visit  or  two  he  seldom  was  with  us  in  our  work. 
The  environment  did  not  seem  to  suit  him. 

"You  have  let  us  go  it  pretty  much  alone, 
Mr.  Miller,"  I  remarked  to  him  one  day;  "but 
on  the  first  night  you  must  be  prepared  to  make 
a  speech  before  the  curtain,  and  also  to  meet 
the  critics.  If  my  guess  is  right,  they  will  be 
glad  to  know  you." 

"What?"  he  cried.  "Make  a  speech  in  a 
New- York  theater  and  meet  all  those  smart 
fellows  on  your  big  papers.  I  didn't  dream 
that  I  should  have  to  do  all  this  just  because 

154 


I  tried  my  hand  at  playwriting.  I  think  I  shall 
go  right  back  to  the  Rockies." 

We  had  a  big  audience  that  first  night,  and 
by  the  time  the  second  act  was  reached  knew 
that  our  play  was  all  that  we  had  anticipated. 
McKee  Rankin  was  playing  the  leading  part 
magnificently,  and  Mrs.  Rankin  was  making 
a  most  effective  Billie  Piper. 

At  the  end  of  the  big  scene  in  the  third  act 
the  good  people  in  front  burst  into  tumultuous 
applause,  and  then,  as  I  had  expected,  they 
began  to  shout :  "Author,  author !" 

I  hadn't  seen  Joaquin  that  evening.  I 
glanced  into  the  box  that  had  been  set  aside 
for  him.  He  was  not  there.  I  scanned  the 
house,  knowing  that  if  he  was  present  my  eyes 
would  not  miss  the  hirsute  luxuriance  of  the 
bard  of  the  West.  I  failed  to  see  him.  Then 
I  sent  boys  in  half  a  dozen  different  directions 
in  search  of  the  missing  poet. 

Meanwhile  the  audience  was  maintaining  in- 
sistently the  call  of  "Author,  author !"  Finally 
the  stage-manager  went  before  the  curtain  and 
announced  that  the  author  was  not  in  the 
house.  This  was  a  mistake.  In  the  fourth  act 
a  boy  touched  me  on  the  elbow. 

"He's  up  in  the  gallery,  sir,  and  says  he's 

155 


going  to  stay  there.  He  told  me  you'd  have  to 
get  a  team  of  oxen  to  drag  him  down." 

I  made  no  effort  to  bring  him  forth  from  his 
safe  haven  among  the  gods.  Why  should  I 
disturb  him?  He  had  paid  his  quarter  and 
climbed  the  steep  stairs,  and  had  a  perfect  right 
to  remain  in  his  vantage-point  up  under  the 
roof  if  he  cared  to.  But  I  know  of  no  other 
playwright  who  would  have  been  so  modest  as 
to  have  thus  avoided  the  first  fruits  of  triumph. 

The  next  morning,  after  I  had  fervently  con- 
gratulated him  on  the  glorious  success  of  the 
night  before,  I  laughingly  asked  him  why  he 
had  hidden  from  the  ovation. 

"It  was  just  that  I  didn't  have  the  nerve  to 
face  the  music/'  he  replied.  "I'm  not  used  to  it, 
you  know.  At  first  I  thought  I  would  stay 
away  altogether ;  but  I  did  want  to  see  how  the 
thing  went,  so  I  slid  in  at  the  side  door  and 
climbed  up  with  the  boys.  You  see,  I'm  accus- 
tomed to  high  altitudes.  I  thought  I  was  safe 
up  there  at  first,  but  when  they  began  to  call 
for  the  author  I  had  one  of  the  worst  ten 
minutes  of  my  life,  fearing  that  some  of  you 
fellows  would  discover  me.  New- York  is  too 
much  for  me.  I'm  going  to  light  out  for  the 
hills  this  afternoon,  and  leave  this  theatrical 
business  all  to  you." 

156 


'The  Danites,"  as  everybody  knows,  proved 
to  be  one  of  the  greatest  dramatic  successes  of 
a  generation. 


Another  dramatic  production  with  which  I 
became  associated  in  an  accidental  way  brought 
a  stirring  first  night;  but  on  this  occasion  the 
author  did  not  dodge  his  honors. 

A  New- York  train  was  pulling  out  of  the 
station  at  Washington,  D.  C,  when,  on  passing 
through  a  car  to  my  chair,  I  felt  a  hand  touch 
my  arm.  I  turned  and  confronted  Howard 
Carroll,  now  General  Carroll,  who  at  that  time 
recently  had  been  graduated  from  years  of 
service  as  the  Washington  correspondent  of 
"The  New- York  Times." 

"Trying  to  give  me  the  go-by,  were  you, 
Jimmie?"  he  said  laughingly.  "Well,  you  won't 
succeed.  Sit  down  here.  I  want  to  talk  to 
you.  I  have  a  confession  to  make,"  he  went  on, 
after  I  had  shaken  his  hand  and  seated  myself. 
"Prepare  for  the  worst.  I've  written  a  play." 

"Good!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Of  course  it's  a  good  play,"  he  answered. 
"Thank  you  very  much  for  your  favorable  ver- 
dict. I  presume  that  you  will  be  pleased  to  pro- 
duce it  at  once.  However,  it  might  be  just  as 

157 


well  if  you  first  heard  it  read.  I  have  it  right 
here  in  my  bag." 

"Oh,  wait  till  we  get  to  New-York,"  I  said 
"How  can  a  man  concentrate  his  mind  on  a 
great  work  of  art  in  a  railroad  train?  But 
what  do  you  call  your  play?" 

"The  Lorelei,"  he  answered. 

"You'll  have  to  give  her  another  name  if 
you  want  the  people  to  flock  to  see  her,"  I 
informed  him.  "But  we  can  discuss  her  name 
when  I  hear  the  play." 

We  had  dinner  together  at  General  Car- 
roll's home  in  New- York  the  next  day,  and 
afterward  he  read  me  the  drama.  It  was  a 
clever  and  poetically  conceived  satire  on  mar- 
riages of  American  girls  with  titled  foreigners, 
the  theme  being  suggested,  he  told  me,  by  the 
alliance  between  the  daughter  of  John  W. 
Mackay  and  the  Italian  Prince  Colonna.  It 
was  beautifully  written. 

"I  congratulate  you  most  heartily  on  your 
maiden  effort  as  a  playwright,  General  Car- 
roll," I  said  at  the  conclusion  of  the  reading. 
"I  shall  produce  this  play;  but  as  I  said  on  the 
train  we  shall  have  to  change  the  name  to 
something  the  people  can  understand.  Why 
not  call  it  The  American  Countess'  ?" 

"Excellent!"  said  Carroll.     "We  will.     But 

128 


where  will  you  produce  it — here  in  New- 
York?" 

"Why,"  I  answered,  "I  was  thinking  that 
our  friends  down  at  the  Capital  deserved  the 
honor  of  seeing  the  first  presentation.  I  am 
managing  Mile.  Rhea,  you  know.  We  play  an 
engagement  at  the  National  Theater  in  Wash- 
ington. You  are  so  well-known  and  popular 
there  that  the  opening  with  your  play  would  be 
a  big  event." 

"Jimmie,  it's  an  inspiration !"  exclaimed  Car- 
roll enthusiastically.  "President  Arthur  is  my 
friend.  Our  first  night  will  be  honored  by  the 
presence  of  the  head  of  the  nation." 

And  so  it  was  arranged.  When  I  read  the 
play  to  Mile.  Rhea,  she  was  delighted  with  it. 
We  made  great  preparations  for  the  produc- 
tion. I  had  new  scenery  painted,  and  Rhea 
selected  from  her  wardrobe,  to  wear  on  the 
stage  for  the  first  time,  a  gorgeous  court  cos- 
tume which  had  been  made  for  the  Queen  of 
Holland,  but  which,  not  being  entirely  satis- 
factory to  the  Queen,  had  been  purchased  in 
Europe  by  my  star. 

For  the  purpose  of  impressing  upon  the 
newspapers  the  importance  of  the  event,  Car- 
roll and  I  went  to  Washington  a  couple  of 
weeks  before  the  opening.  Thanks  to  his  high 

159 


favor  there,  we  succeeded  admirably  in  our 
mission.  No  dramatic  production  was  ever 
heralded  with  a  greater  flourish  of  trumpets. 

President  Arthur  permitted  us  to  use  his 
name.  In  fact,  he  stood  behind  the  play  as  a 
sort  of  sponsor.  The  dramatic  editors  of  the 
New-York  papers  came  down  for  the  first  per- 
formance. The  fashion,  culture  and  brains  of 
Washington  were  assembled  in  brave  array  for 
the  occasion.  The  President  was  in  a  box.  It 
indeed  was  a  gala  night.  The  initial  effort  of 
no  other  budding  playwright  that  I  know  of 
was  ever  launched  so  auspiciously. 

During  the  first  two  acts  the  brilliant  audi- 
ence showed  great  appreciation  of  the  well- 
developed  action  and  fine  dialogue,  and  when 
the  curtain  rose  on  the  third  act  there  was  a 
burst  of  spontaneous  applause.  This  scene 
showed  a  ball-room,  with  a  conservatory  be- 
hind, and  we  were  proud  of  it.  The  conser- 
vatory was  filled  with  roses,  lilies  and  other 
growing  flowers  from  the  President's  own  hot- 
houses, and  the  official  horticulturist  had 
arranged  them  so  cunningly  that  they  appeared 
to  reach  away  in  a  long  vista.  The  theater  was 
pervaded  by  their  fragrance.  When  Mile. 
Rhea  swept  in,  managing  like  a  queen  the  long 
court  train  of  resplendent  yellow,  with  the 

160 


charming  bower  as  her  background,  the  scene 
was  exceedingly  charming. 

But  Carroll,  at  this  time  of  triumph,  was  far 
from  happy.  He  was  pale  with  nervousness, 
because,  at  the  end  of  the  third  act,  he  knew 
that  he  would  be  called  upon  for  a  speech.  To 
lighten  his  burden  of  apprehension,  I  told  him 
the  story  of  how  Joaquin  Miller  had  concealed 
himself  in  the  gallery  the  night  of  the  first  pro- 
duction of  his  play. 

"I  can  understand  it,  I  can  understand  it!" 
cried  Carroll.  Rather  than  go  out  there  and 
face  all  those  people  I'd  prefer  to  do  as  Shake- 
speare's soldier  did,  and  'seek  the  bubble 
reputation  in  the  cannon's  mouth.'  I  wish, 
Jimmie,  that  you  had  written  this  play  instead 
of  I.  When  they  call  for  the  author,  couldn't 
you  go  out  and  say  that  you  did  write  it,  after 
all?" 

But  our  playwright  gave  little  evidence  of  his 
stage-fright  when  he  stepped  before  the  cur- 
tain. He  bowed  first  to  the  President,  who 
immediately  rose  to  his  feet  and  bowed  gravely 
in  return.  The  house  broke  into  applause  at 
this,  and  General  Carroll  had  time  to  find  his 
voice,  which  he  speedily  did,  with  most  excel- 
lent effect.  He  made  an  extremely  happy  and 
clever  little  speech, 

161 


Some  months  afterward,  at  Hooley's  Theater 
in  Chicago,  we  gave  the  one  hundredth  per- 
formance of  "The  American  Countess." 


Neither  with  this  play,  nor,  of  course,  with 
"The  Danites,"  was  I  put  to  the  necessity  as 
managers  often  are,  of  devising  ways  and 
means  of  increasing  the  business.  But  I  need 
hardly  say  that  there  have  been  occasions  when 
this  has  been  my  fate. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  Tribly  furore  I  took 
the  play  of  that  name  to  Boston,  for  Mr. 
William  A.  Brady,  the  only  manager  who  took 
chances  of  realizing  $200,000,  and  he  suc- 
ceeded. After  about  a  month  of  our  engage- 
ment, Eugene  Tompkins,  the  owner  of  the 
Boston  Theater,  said  to  me  one  morning: 

"Morrissey,  business,  as  you  know,  is  falling 
off.  Can't  you  think  of  some  way  of  building 
it  up?  We  don't  want  to  finish  like  a  dying 
swan." 

"We  certainly  do  not,"  I  answered.  'Til 
think  it  over."  The  next  day  I  announced  my 
scheme. 

"The  souvenir  idea  is  an  old  one,"  I  said; 
"but  it  always  brings  the  women  flocking  to 
the  theater,  and  I  think  that  we  have  a  great 
opportunity  with  Trilby,  who  is  supposed  to 

162 


have  beautiful  feet,  you  know,  to  put  our 
feminine  friends  in  a  flutter  and  make  them 
talk  a  lot  about  us.  My  plan  is  to  offer  a  pair 
of  Trilby  slippers,  studded  with  diamonds,  to 
the  woman  in  the  audience  whom  they  fit  best. 
And  I  don't  think  the  diamonds  will  cost  us  a 
cent." 

That  day  I  saw  young  Eben  Jordan,  of  a 
large  Boston  department  store.  "I  figure  that 
the  diamonds  and  slippers  will  cost,  all  told, 
about  four  hundred  dollars,"  I  informed  him. 
"Will  you  furnish  them  for  the  sake  of  the 
advertisement?  We  can  display  them  first  on 
a  pedestal  in  one  of  your  windows." 

The  idea  appealed  to  Jordan.  He  thought 
that  there  would  be  a  good  deal  of  fun  in  the 
trying  on,  at  any  rate,  and  so,  after  a  little 
talk,  he  agreed  to  supply  the  diamond  slippers. 

We  had  them  made  from  a  model  of  a 
perfect  foot.  They  were  of  pink  brocade  and 
gold  lace.  The  diamonds  were  so  affixed  as 
to  be  easily  screwed  off  and  worn  where  their 
fortunate  winner  might  desire.  Then  we 
prepared  a  pedestal  of  black  velvet,  and 
upon  this,  all  alone  in  one  of  the  store's  largest 
windows,  we  put  the  Trilby  -slippers,  were  they 
shone  resplendent  for  several  days  before  the 
contest.  The  president  of  one  of  New-Eng- 

163 


land's  largest  shoe  companies  had  consented 
to  act  as  chairman  of  the  trying-on  committee. 

There  were  at  least  three  thousand  women 
in  the  theater  at  that  matinee,  which  meant, 
with  premiums,  nearly  $5,000  for  a  single  per- 
formance. At  the  conclusion  of  the  play  we 
lowered  a  plank  across  the  orchestra  inclosure, 
and  invited  the  contestants,  fifty  at  a  time,  to 
come  upon  the  stage.  The  scene  was  a  pretty 
drawing-room,  and  down  near  the  footlights 
was  a  gilt  chair,  with  a  stool  before  it,  for  our 
Cinderellas. 

As  these  came  up  we  formed  them  in  a  semi- 
circle around  the  stage,  where  they  at  once 
removed  their  shoes  and  handed  them  to  maids, 
receiving  checks  in  return.  We  took  special 
care  with  this  part  of  our  arrangements,  desir- 
ing to  avoid  the  small  riot  that  might  result 
from  a  mix-up  of  footwear. 

While  this  performance  was  going  on  at  the 
rear  of  the  stage,  Cinderellas  in  rapid  succes- 
sion were  being  called  to  the  chair.  The  presi- 
dent of  the  shoe  company  was  doing  most  of 
the  trying  on.  Now  and  then  he  would  rise  to 
get  the  crick  out  of  his  back,  and  another  mem- 
ber of  the  committee  would  bend  to  the  work, 
but  in  a  moment  the  chairman  would  be  at  it 

164 


again.  Judging  from  his  zeal,  he  felt  the 
responsibilities  of  his  position. 

If  the  pair  of  feet  on  the  stool  wouldn't  do 
at  all,  the  chairman  would  glance  into  the 
anxious  eyes  above  and  regretfully  shake  his 
head,  while  one  of  the  committee  would  say  in 
a  tone  of  personal  disappointment:  "We  are 
sorry,  madam."  The  defeated  one  then  would 
get  her  shoes,  put  them  sadly  on,  and  retire  to 
the  audience,  where  she  would  be  received  with 
gentle  jeers  and  titters  by  her  friends. 

If  the  feet  of  the  Cinderella  went  easily  into 
the  slippers,  the  chairman  would  make  a  little 
gratified  bow  and  wave  his  hand,  and  one  of 
the  others  of  us  would  say :  "Stand  over  there, 
if  you  please,  madam."  Then  there  would  be 
a  patter  of  applause  from  her  adherents  out  in 
front. 

After  the  first  trial,  there  were  left  on  the 
stage  about  a  hundred  owners  of  shapely  feet. 
After  the  second,  fifty  remained.  After  the 
third,  there  was  just  two  surviving.  One  was 
an  unusually  pretty  Boston  girl  of  eighteen, 
and  the  other  a  young  woman  who  apparently 
had  come  in  from  a  farm.  Her  face  was  plain, 
her  hands,  I  noticed,  had  been  roughened  by 
toil,  and  her  dress,  though  neat,  was  of  cheap 
material.  She  was  painfully  embarrassed. 

165 


By  this  time  the  excitement  in  the  audience 
had  become  intense.  Even  on  the  stage  we  all 
were  leaning  forward  eagerly,  and  the  house 
was  hushed  as  the  chairman,  a  large  man  with 
an  impressive  head,  bent  over  the  stool  with  a 
frown  of  concentration  on  his  intellectual  brow. 

Several  times  he  had  one  and  then  the  other 
of  the  young  women  reseat  herself  in  the  gilt 
chair.  He  was  perplexed,  and  mopped  his  fore- 
head. Finally  he  straightened  himself,  asked 
the  rivals  to  take  places  on  either  side  of  the 
chair,  and  then  drew  aside  Eugene  Tompkins 
and  myself,  who  were  the  other  members  of  the 
committee,  for  a  whispered  consultation. 

"It's  very  difficult  to  decide  between  them," 
he  said.  Both  have  remarkably  beautiful  feet; 
but  the  younger  one  is  so  much  more  attrac- 
tive that  I—" 

"This  is  not  a  contest  of  faces,  but  of  feet," 
I  interrupted.  "It  has  reached  such  a  fine  point 
now  that  I  have  no  opinion;  but,  I  should  say, 
let  your  conscience  decide  the  question." 

"By  all  means,"  added  Mr.  Tompkins. 

With  this,  our  chief  judge  stepped  over  to  the 
chair  again,  and  in  a  strained  silence  from  the 
throng  of  intensely  interested  women,  he  held 
out  his  hand  in  congratulation  to  the  homely 
girl  from  the  country. 

166 


The  orchestra  leader,  who  had  been  on  the 
alert,  instantly  began  to  wave  his  baton  in  a 
lively  air.  The  audience  burst  into  applause, 
and  the  girl  who  had  won,  her  eyes  bright  with 
exultation  and  her  cheeks  suffused  with  blushes, 
sat  down  in  the  chair  again,  to  have  those  per- 
fect feet  of  hers  incased  in  the  diamond  slip- 
pers. In  a  few  seconds  the  chairman  had 
given  her  his  arm  and,  with  his  back  still  a 
little  bent  from  his  exertions,  but  otherwise 
appearing  gallant,  he  stood  before  the  audience. 
The  music  stopped,  and  he  said : 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  this  is  the  young 
woman  whom  the  diamond  slippers,  modeled 
after  the  ideal  classic  foot,  have  fitted  best  of 
all.  I  have  the  honor  to  present  her  to  you." 

As  I  recall  the  episode,  I  am  glad  that  the 
plain,  timid  girl  won  the  slippers  from  the  fash- 
ionable Boston  women  who  tried  them  on.  For 
her,  it  was  the  triumph  of  a  lifetime,  and  Mr. 
Brady  never  questioned  my  Souvenir  ideas 
after  that. 


167 


ADELINA   PATTI 


JOSEPH  JEFFERSON 


IGNACE  JAN  PADEREWSKI 


CHAPTER  X. 

AMERICAN  AND  FOREIGN  ART  EMBRACE. 

We  find  few  bargains  when  we  shop  for 
blessings  in  the  department  store  of  life,  but 
if  we  pay  the  standard  price  we  are  apt  to  get 
a  fair  return.  Joseph  Jefferson  had  spent  a 
wealth  of  kindliness,  with  the  result  that  he  re- 
ceived tokens  of  the  world's  good  feeling 
continually. 

I  happened  to  meet  him  one  afternoon  in 
front  of  the  Madison  Square  Garden,  in  New- 
York.  After  he  had  greeted  me  genially,  in 
that  slightly  drawling  voice  with  which  mil- 
lions of  theater-goers  are  familiar,  he  asked: 

"What's  going  on  in  here,  Morrissey?" 

"Why,  Paderewski  is  giving  the  United 
States  his  farewell  concert.  Haven't  you  heard 
him  yet?" 

"No,  I  haven't." 

"Well,  come  in  then,  won't  you?  There  is 
plenty  of  room  in  my  box.  We  should  be  de- 
lighted to  have  you." 

"And  I'll  be  delighted  to  go.  I  have  wanted 
to  hear  Paderewski." 

When  we  entered  the  box  the  concert  had 
begun.  The  audience  was  sitting  hushed  under 

171 


the  spell  of  sweet  sounds  that  stirred  the  soul, 
from  a  Steinway  Grand.  But  our  arrival 
caused  heads  to  turn.  I  could  see  people  nudge 
each  other,  and  say  that  it  was  Joseph  Jeffer- 
son who  had  just  come  in.  For  a  moment  at- 
tention wandered  from  the  music.  It  was  plain 
to  me  that  Paderewski,  sensitive  to  slight  im- 
pressions, felt  it.  He  half  turned  his  head, 
with  just  a  slight  suggestion  of  annoyance. 

But,  of  course,  there  was  no  break  in  that 
wonderful  flow  of  music.  Jefferson,  with  the 
fine  instinct  that  made  him  desirous  not  to  in- 
terfere in  the  slightest  degree  with  the  per- 
formance of  another,  took  a  seat  as  far  back  irP 
the  box  as  possible,  and  in  a  moment  the  audi- 
ence again  was  under  the  sway  of  music  that 
was  full  of  strange  whisperings. 

When  Paderewski  ceased,  with  a  final  burst 
of  rhapsody,  the  rows  of  statues  in  the  seats 
suddenly  became  animate  with  wild  enthusiasm. 
The  pianist  bowed  distantly,  and  then  glanced 
toward  our  box.  Jefferson  had  left  his  chair, 
and  was  leaning  recklessly  over  the  railing, 
clapping  his  hands  with  the  gusto  of  a  boy. 

Paderewski  recognized  him.  Instantly  his 
abstracted  expression  changed  to  smiles,  and 
ignoring  now  the  demonstrative  applause  in 

172 


front,  he  bowed  directly  to  Jefferson.  The 
latter  put  fresh  impetus  into  his  hand-clapping. 
The  pianist  bowed  to  him  again.  Jefferson 
clapped  harder  still.  Once  more  Paderewski 
bowed,  and  in  the  veteran  actor's  response  it 
seemed  as  though  he  surely  would  split  his 
gloves.  The  pianist  suddenly  laughed,  and 
Jefferson  laughed,  and  the  audience  laughed. 

Then  the  latter,  realizing  that  before  their 
eyes  was  the  pretty  comedy  of  two  celebrated 
artists  exchanging  tributes  of  appreciation, 
and  each  trying  to  outdo  the  other,  gave  vent 
to  a  burst  of  applause  that  sounded  like  a  sud- 
den rush  of  mighty  waters. 

It  was  some  moments  before  the  house  be- 
came quiet  enough  for  Paderewski  to  continue 
his  recital.  After  it  was  over,  I  took  Jefferson 
back  to  the  green-room  to  meet  his  fellow  con- 
queror in  the  field  of  art,  and  their  hand-grasp 
was  a  long  one. 

Not  only  in  the  high  places,  but  down 
through  every  walk  of  life,  are  found  admirers 
of  Joe  Jefferson. 

I  was  making  my  way  through  Madison 
Square  Park  one  spring  afternoon  when  I 
heard  a  shout  and  saw  a  commotion.  An  active 
boy  was  scurrying  across  the  grass,  and  in  hot 
pursuit  was  a  big  policeman.  The  boy  dodged 

173 


neatly  several  times ;  but  the  superior  length  of 
his  pursuer's  legs  was  too  much  for  him,  and 
in  a  moment  he  was  borne  down  by  the  heavy 
hand  of  the  law.  The  policeman  lifted  his  cap- 
tive by  the  collar  and  dragged  him  to  the  walk, 
where  he  stood  over  him,  breathing  hard  and 
scowling  ferociously. 

"Ye  will  run  on  the  grass,  will  ye?"  he  was 
saying  when  I  came  up.  "If  ye  hadn't  given 
me  such  a  chase  I'd  let  ye  go,  but  now,  begorra, 
I'm  goin'  to  take  ye  in,  ye  young  scalawag! 
Come  along  now !  Ye  can  cool  off  in  a  cell." 

The  boy  had  no  defiance  left.  He  was  cow- 
ering and  trembling  under  that  firm  grip  on 
his  collar.  I  glanced  into  his  frightened  face 
and  recognized  young  William  Jefferson. 

"Excuse  me,  officer,"  I  said,  stepping  up.  "I 
know  this  boy.  I'm  sure  he  meant  no  harm. 
He  ran  simply  because  you  frightened  him.  He 
is  the  son  of  Joseph  Jefferson." 

The  policeman  had  turned  on  me  belliger- 
ently ;  but  at  my  mention  of  the  name  of  Jeffer- 
son his  expression  changed. 

"What?  Ye  don't  mane  to  tell  me  he's  the 
son  of  Joe  Jefferson,  the  great  actor  ?" 

"The  same,"  I  answered.  "His  father  is 
playing  over  at  the  Garden  Theater." 

"Well,  now,  who'd  belaved  it?"    the  police- 

174 


man  exclaimed,  releasing  his  hold  on  young 
Willie's  collar  and  mopping  his  perspiring 
brow  with  a  big  handkerchief.  "Onct  on  me 
night  off  I  took  the  wife  to  see  him 
in  old  'Rip  Van  Winkle/  and  'twas  a  fine 
time  we  had.  So  this  is  his  son,  is 
it?  Well,  I  should  be  hatin'  to  harm 
a  lad  of  old  Rip's.  I  suppose,  after  all,  our 
young  friend  here  was  only  wantin'  a  bit  o' 
fun  with  the  cop.  I  mind  how,  whin  I  was  a 
kid,  we  used  to  like  to  do  th'  same.  Ye  can 
run  home  now,  sonny,  but  ye'd  better  be 
thankin'  yer  stars  you've  got  Rip  Van  Winkle 
fer  a  pop." 

If  all  players  and  singers  were  like  Joseph 
Jefferson,  the  path  of  the  manager  would  be 
always  pleasant ;  but  it  would  be  absurd  to  ex- 
pect that  average  human  nature  should  be  like 
that  of  a  rare  man. 


When  I  was  business  manager  of  the  Madi- 
son Square  Garden,  the  president  of  the  com- 
pany, Frederick  K.  Sturgis,  said  to  me  one  day : 

"Mr.  Morrissey,  I  wish  we  could  get  some 
big  event  here  besides  the  horse  show  that 
fashionable  people  would  attend." 

"How  would  a  great  musical  festival  do?" 
I  asked. 

175 


"Excellent !  But  who  would  you  get  as  our 
chief  singer?" 

"Why,  Patti.  Her  engagement  at  the  Met- 
ropolitan Opera  House  will  soon  be  over,  and 
I  am  -sure  that  she  can  be  persuaded  to  remain 
for  a  week  or  two  longer  on  this  side  of  the 
Atlantic.  I  also  can  arrange  for  a  large 
orchestra,  eminent  soloists  and  a  great  chorus, 
and  these  will  make  a  most  impressive  en- 
semble. Even  if  Patti's  voice  is  not  strong 
enough  to  fill  the  Garden,  we  can  carry  the  peo- 
ple away  on  big  waves  of  music." 

"Fine,  Morrissey!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Sturgis. 
"Go  ahead.  I  leave  the  affair  in  your  hands." 

Half  an  hour  later  I  sent  my  card  to  Mme. 
Patti  at  the  Hoffman  House.  In  her  soft  voice, 
with  its  touch  of  Italian  intonation,  she  in- 
formed me  of  her  pleasure  at  our  meeting.  I 
got  down  to  business  without  delay.  Upon 
what  terms,  I  asked  her,  would  she  sing  at  a 
series  of  three  concerts  in  the  Madison  Square 
Garden. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Morrissey,  I  do  want  so  to  re- 
turn to  my  dear  home  in  Wales !  I  am  so  tired ! 
I  am  but  a  weak  woman,  you  know.  And  yet, 
I  love  the  dear  Americans.  It  gives  me  much 
pleasure  to  gratify  you,  and  so  I  think  I  might 
be  willing  to  sing  for  you,  to  please  you,  for — 

176 


what  shall  we  say — five  thousand  dollars  a  con- 
cert ?  Yes,  I  will  say  that.  My  arrival  at  my 
beloved  home  will  be  delayed;  but  I  cannot 
forget  that  you  are  Americans,  who  have  been 
so  good  to  me,  who  are  asking  me  to  sing." 

Madame  Patti  need  not  have  assured  me 
that  she  was  not  forgetting  that  it  was  Ameri- 
cans who  were  requesting  this  favor,  because 
if  she  had  forgotten  she  would  not  have  men- 
tioned that  little  sum  of  five  thousand  dollars 
a  concert,  since  abroad  she  often  sings  for  less. 
I  knew  this  well;  but  I  bowed  low  in  recogni- 
tion of  her  sacrifice  and  said  smilingly: 

"Madame,  you  are  very  kind.  I  realize  that 
it  is  asking  much  of  you  to  change  your  plans, 
and  have  only  had  the  courage  to  do  so  be- 
cause there  are  many  thousands  of  Americans 
who  are  eager  to  hear  your  marvelous  voice. 
It  is  in  their  interest  that  I  have  spoken." 

Madame  bowed  and  smiled  most  sweetly.  "I 
appreciate  your  feeling  in  the  matter,  Mr. 
Morrissey." 

"And,  now,"  I  continued,  "I  shall  go  to  my 
office  and  make  out  a  contract,  which  I  im- 
mediately shall  bring  back  for  your  signature, 
Madame  Patti,  so  that  we  can  dispose  of  tire- 
some business  questions  at  once." 

"Very  well,"  she  answered,  "I  shall    await 

177 


your  coming.  I  think  you  have  the  gift  of  in- 
sight, Mr.  Morrissey,  to  know  that  I  like  to 
keep  my  mind  free  from  business.  It  is  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  things  of  art.  I  have  so  very 
little  knowledge  of  it." 

She  extended  her  delicate  hand  with  a 
charming  smile,  and  murmured  a  sweet  au 
revoir. 

My  friend,  the  late  Henry  Villard,  more 
than  once  had  advised  me  to  make  contracts  as 
short  as  possible,  so  I  drew  up  a  brief  docu- 
ment, and  in  a  little  while  again  was  smiling 
and  bowing  in  Madame  Patti's  sitting  room. 

"This  will  be  quite,  quite  satisfactory,  Mr. 
Morrissey,"  she  said,  glancing  over  the  paper 
with  prettily  knitted  brows,"  only  there  is  just 
one  little  thing  I  have  forgot.  A  woman,  you 
know,"  she  went  on  with  a  deprecatory  little 
smile,  "cannot  be  expected  to  remember  every- 
thing in  business,  as  you  men  can.  Is  it  not 
so,  Mr.  Morrissey?" 

"Undoubtedly,"  I  answered. 

"Now  that  I  have  made  my  little  apology," 
she  continued  gaily,  "I  want  to  say  that  I  was 
so  inconsiderate  as  to  forget  my  poor  sec- 
retary." Her  voice  here  took  on  a  touch  of 
pathos.  "He  has  been  away  from  his  dear 
family  in  Italy  so  long,  so  long!  He  will  be 

178 


much  grieved  when  he  hears  that  he  must 
wait  still  longer  before  clasping  his  sweet 
children  in  his  arms,  and  so  I  thought  after 
you  had  gone  that  it  would  be  pleasant  if  we 
could  do  something  for  him.  Let  us  say  then, 
that  our  little  agreement  be  for  six  thousand 
dollars  a  concert,  instead  of  five." 

"Madame,"  I  exclaimed,  with  feeling  and 
admiration  in  my  voice,  "you  are  very  thought- 
ful !  I  am  touched  by  your  mention  of  the  dis- 
appointment of  your  secretary,  and  agree  with 
you,  of  course,  that  we  should  do  what  little 
we  can  to  mitigate  it.  By  all  means,  let  us 
make  it  six  thousand.  Give  me  the  paper,  and 
I  shall  change  the  figures." 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry,  sorry  to  put  you  to  this 
trouble!"  madame  remarked  in  a  voice  of 
deep  solicitude,  as  I  carefully  changed  the  five 
in  the  contract  to  a  six. 

"It  is  nothing,"  I  replied,  "just  putting  one 
little  number  in  place  of  another.  A  mere 
stroke  of  the  pen.  There,  it  is  done  now !  I 
sincerely  hope  that  it  saves  your  secretary  too 
much  suffering." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Morrissey,"  cried  the  prima  donna 
with  enthusiasm,  "it  is  good  to  arrange  these 
little  business  matters  with  a  man  of  feeling! 

179 


You,  too,  have  the  artistic  temperament !  Is  it 
not  true?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,  madame,"  I  answered 
sadly.  "If  I  was  endowed  with  it  as  you  are  I 
should  be  rich." 

With  a  further  exchange  of  compliments, 
we  bade  each  good-by.  I  arranged  for  a 
chorus  of  a  thousand  voices  and  an  orchestra 
of  one  hundred,  conducted  by  Arditi.  The 
choral  singing  under  Chapman  filled  the  Gar- 
den with  £  majestic  surge  of  music,  and  per- 
haps was  even  more  impressive  than  Patti's 
voice.  But  still  she  was  at  the  height  of  her 
powers,  and  undoubtedly  it  was  the  influence 
of  her  name  that  brought  throngs  of  people  to 
the  Garden. 

At  the  last  concert,  on  a  Saturday  afternoon, 
we  took  in  the  largest  receipts  on  record  for  a 
musical  entertainment.  The  amount  was 
seventeen  thousand  dollars;  and  as  I  counted 
this  money  I  began  to  think  that  possibly  we  of 
the  management,  after  all,  had  a  shade  of  that 
artistic  temperament  which  Patti  mentioned. 


Association  with  those  who  are  highly  en- 
dowed with  this  temperament  has  its  excite- 
ments. Richard  Mansfield  was  playing  an 
early-summer  engagement  at  the  Garden 

180 


Theater,  where  I  was  business  manager  for  T. 
Henry  French,  who  then  was  in  Europe. 

Between  the  first  and  second  acts  of  "Prince 
Karl"  one  afternoon  I  received  a  message  from 
the  distinguished  actor  that  he  would  like  to 
see  me  in  his  dressing-room. 

When  I  entered  he  was  sitting  before  his 
mirror,  engrossed  in  putting  finishing  touches 
to  his  make-up. 

"Mr.  Morrissey,"  he  remarked  in  an  irri- 
tated voice,  "what  is  that  horrible  noise?" 

"Why,  I  hear  no  noise,  Mr.  Mansfield,"  I 
replied,  much  surprised. 

"Oh,  listen,  listen  intently,  and  you  will  hear 
it.  During  the  last  act  it  has  annoyed  me  tre- 
mendously. It  must  be  stopped !" 

I  proceeded  to  listen,  and  finally  caught  a 
faint  tapping  sound,  like  the  ticking  of  a  watch 
under  one's  pillow. 

"Ah,  you  hear  it  now!"  exclaimed  Mansfield 
in  a  tone  of  triumph.  "I  cannot  stand  it.  It 
distracts  me.  Unless  it  is  stopped  the  audi- 
ence must  be  dismissed." 

I  went  out  to  the  street  to  ascertain  the 
source  of  this  terrible  noise,  and  down  at  the 
other  end  of  the  block  saw  a  large  crowd  view- 
ing the  new  Diana  for  the  tower  rise  slowly  in 
the  air.  I  approached,  and  saw  that  Stanford 

181 


White  himself,  the  architect  of  the  Garden,  a 
man  celebrated  in  his  profession,  was  superin- 
tending the  difficult  work.  A  group  of  the 
board  of  directors  of  the  Madison  Square  Gar- 
den Company,  who  had  been  holding  a  meet- 
ing that  afternoon,  were  watching  its  pro- 
gress. 

On  the  ledges  of  the  little  windows  of  the 
tower  men  were  engaged  in  preventing  the 
goddess  from  hurting  herself  against  the  wall 
as  she  rose.  The  sound  that  had  so  disturbed 
and  inflamed  Mansfield  was  the  little  clicking 
of  the  hoisting  derrick.  I  went  back  and  ex- 
plained the  situation  to  him. 

"Either  that  noise  must  cease  at  once  or  the 
play  must  stop !"  he  remarked  in  the  acid  tones 
that  he  knew  so  well  how  to  use. 

I  realized  that  I  should  have  to  take  some 
action,  and  so  I  walked  down  the  block  again. 
When  I  reached  the  crowd  I  hesitated.  There 
obviously  was  no  way  out  of  the  difficulty 
except  to  ask  Mr.  White  if  the  work  could  not 
be  discontinued  temporarily ;  but  the  reason  for 
making  this  presumptuous  request  seemed  to 
me  so  trivial  that  I  hardly  could  muster  cour- 
age to  ask  it. 

I  positively  was  embarrassed  when  I  finally 
decided  to  execute  my  mission  and  haltingly 

182 


stepped  up  to  the  architect,  with  whom  I  was 
well  acquainted. 

He  listened  with  an  expression  of  astonish- 
ment on  his  face  when  I  told  him  that  Mans- 
field had  said  that  he  would  dismiss  his  audi- 
ence if  the  noise  caused  by  the  hoisting  of  the 
goddess  did  not  cease. 

"Does  he  really  mean  it?"  asked  Mr.  White. 

"He  certainly  does." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,  but  the  thing  can't  be  done. 
We  must  get  the  figure  in  place  while  there  is 
plenty  of  light.  It's  a  ticklish  job  for  those 
men  up  in  the  air,  and  they  must  finish  it  be- 
fore they  come  down.  I  should  like  to  accom- 
modate Mr.  Mansfield,  but  in  this  case  it  is 
impossible." 

I  had  expected  this,  and  turned  to  go, 
mentally  preparing  myself  for  the  distasteful 
ordeal  of  dismissing  the  audience,  when  the 
architect  said: 

"I  suppose  he  really  would  send  all  of  those 
people  away.  It  would  be  too  bad,  when  you 
have  such  a  large  audience.  We  must  make 
allowances  for  the  high  nervous  tension  of 
genius,  I  guess,  and  so  I'll  see  what  can  be 
done." 

What  he  did  was  to  give  orders  to  suspend 
operations  until  the  conclusion  of  the  matinee, 

183 


and  the  goddess  dangled  ingloriously  in  the 
air,  half-way  to  her  pedestal,  while  the  play 
went  on. 


184 


HENRY  WARD   BEECHER 


ANTON    SEIDL 


THEODORE  THOMAS 


CHAPTER  XL 

A  CONTEST  FOR  SUPREMACY. 

That  the  baton  of  Theodore  Thomas  has 
been  laid  down  means  the  loss  to  the  United 
States  of  one  of  its  most  important  musical  in- 
fluences. In  music  Thomas  was  a  pathfinder. 
He  led  many  thousands  across  frivolous  rills 
of  music  to  high  place  where  they  could  hear 
and  appreciate  the  ocean-like  surge  of  great 
compositions. 

His  nature,  strong  and  deep,  caused  him  to 
have  little  regard  for  musical  trivialities. 
There  was  a  kinship  between  him  and  such 
men  as  Beethoven,  Mendelssohn,  Liszt,  Wag- 
ner; and  through  the  medium  of  his  orchestra 
he  interpreted  their  music  with  a  fervor,  un- 
derstanding and  persistency  that  lifted  the 
American  public  to  a  higher  plane  of  musical 
culture.  In)  this  work  he  was  followed  by 
others  but  he  was  the  pioneer. 

I  remember  him  well  in  the  old  days,  at  the 
beginning  of  his  career  as  an  orchestra  leader. 
Often  I  used  to  go  to  hear  the  concerts  which 
he  gave  in  Stein  way  Hall  on  Four  teen  th-st, 
New- York.  Even  then,  in  his  comparative 
youth,  he  was  a  masterful  figure.  His  control 
of  his  musicians  was  absolute.  He  conducted 

187 


with  the  simplicity  and  seriousness  of  manner 
which  marked  his  work  to  the  end,  and  which 
brought  it  out  in  strong  relief  against  the  af- 
fectation and  ostentation  of  some  other  orches- 
tra leaders. 

But  I  believe  that  all  men,  however  great, 
have  periods  when  their  careers  seem  to  stag- 
nate, when  the  world  wearies  a  little  of  the 
tension  of  notice  their  strength  demands,  and, 
relaxing,  turns  to  others. 

I  know  that  this  was  true  of  Theodore 
Thomas.  I  had  become  well  acquainted  with 
him  during  the  years  he  conducted  in  Central 
Park  Garden,  where  a  riding  academy  now 
stands.  Afterward,  for  a  long  time,  our  paths 
did  not  cross ;  but  one  spring  day  in  the  early 
nineties  I  happened  to  meet  him  on  the  street. 

"I  am  going  to  leave  New- York,"  he  in- 
formed me.  "I  have  remained  here  too  long, 
Mr.  Morrissey.  The  people  have  become  tired 
of  me.  New-Yorkers  are  eager  for  new  faces, 
and  so  we  veterans  must  pass  along.  If  we  are 
wise,  we  go  before  the  signs  that  we  have 
worn  out  our  welcome  become  too  un- 
mistakable." 

He  said  this  smilingly,  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
keen  eyes,  but  behind  his  half-jesting  manner 
I  could  detect  much  feeling. 

188 


"You  will  pardon  me,  Mr.  Thomas/'  I  said 
protestingly ;  "but  I  am  sure  you  are  wrong. 
There  are  few  men  who  haven't  good  reason 
to  envy  your  standing  with  the  intelligent  and 
cultivated  people  of  this  city.  It  will  be  a  great 
loss  to  have  you  leave  us." 

The  smile  on  his  strong  face  deepened.  My 
words  pleased  him,  for  the  reason,  I  think,  that 
they  had  the  ring  of  the  sincerity  that  was  be- 
hind them.  "It's  good  of  you,  Morrissey,  to 
say  these  things,  but  whether  they  are  true  or 
not,  I  feel  that  I  need  a  new  environment.  I 
have  my  eyes  fixed  on  Chicago." 

"When  do  you  go?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  not  in  some  months  yet,  not  until  fall." 

An  idea  struck  me,  and  I  ,said  quickly :  "I 
am  business  manager  of  the  Madison  Square 
Garden.  Would  you  mind  dropping  in  on  me 
at  my  office  in  the  tower  sometime  to-morrow  ? 
The  truth  is,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  be  per- 
mitted to  leave  New- York  so  easily  as  you  have 
planned." 

Thomas  glanced  at  me  questioningly. 

"I  shall  explain  myself  to-morrow,"  I  said 
smilingly;  "but  prepare  yourself  for  a  propo- 
sition." 

He  laughed  and  promised  to  call. 

"It  is  not  in    keeping    with    your    brilliant 

189 


career  in  New- York,  Mr.  Thomas/'  I  said  to 
him  the  next  day  at  my  office,  "to  steal  away 
without  a  sound.  If  this  is  the  last  act,  as  far 
as  the  metropolis  is  concerned,  let  us  make  its 
end  a  climax;  let  the  curtain  go  down  to  a 
full  house  and  with  a  great  ensemble  of  music/' 

Thomas  listened  intently  to  my  enthusiastic 
talk,  of  which  the  upshot  was  the  drawing  up 
of  a  contract  for  a  three  months'  season  of  sum- 
mer-night concerts  in  the  Madison  Square 
Garden. 

"I  will  tell  you  frankly/'  he  remarked  when 
he  was  leaving,  "that  I  doubt  the  financial  suc- 
cess of  this  venture.  People  don't  care  much 
for  classic  music  in  the  summer,  and  they  are 
tired  of  Thomas." 

"Before  long  you  will  think  differently,"  I 
replied. 

For  the  Thomas  concerts  we  formed  a 
three-cornered  partnership  between  the  Madi- 
son Square  Garden  Company,  Chickering  & 
Sons  and  myself.  The  concerts  were  a  great 
success.  Thomas,  gratified  to  find  that  New- 
York  was  not  so  fickle  as  he  had  thought,  was 
in  high  spirits  all  that  summer.  There  were 
evenings  when  he  so  gave  himself  up  to  the 
spirit  of  the  great  tone  poets  that  he  con- 
ducted like  a  veritable  god  of  music.  It  was 

190 


a  magician's  wand  that  he  waved  over  his 
orchestra.  It  responded  to  him,  a  wonder- 
fully harmonious  unit,  as  if  beneath  a  spell. 
Thomas,  in  truth,  had  an  almost  hypnotic 
faculty  for  command,  but  under  the  mask  of  a 
manner  of  some  austerity  there  was  a  wealth 
of  feeling.  This  was  illustrated  to  me  more 
than  once,  but  was  particularly  manifest  the 
night  we  gave  him  a  testimonial  concert.  It 
was  toward  the  end  of  the  season.  The  Gar- 
den was  crowded  to  the  doors  that  night. 
Emma  Abbott  was  our  soloist. 

In  connection  with  her,  by  the  way,  I  re- 
member a  rather  interesting  little  incident  of 
the  concert.  She  wore  a  long  train,  and  when 
after  her  songs  she  started  to  leave  the  plat- 
form in  the  center  of  the  amphitheater  the 
train  caught  on  something.  It  was  too  big  an 
affair  for  a  little  woman  to  manage,  anyway. 
Thomas  saw  her  difficulty.  He  stepped  down 
quickly  from  where  he  had  been  conducting, 
gathered  up  the  silken  superfluity,  and  with 
the  bow  and  smile  of  a  courtier  motioned  her 
to  proceed.  She  turned  around,  made  him  a 
charming  little  courtesy,  and  then  moved 
gracefully  down  the  steps  and  along  the  aisle 
between  the  chairs,  her  cavalier  following  with 
the  train.  Emma  seemed  a  queen,  and  Thomas 

191 


had  the  appearance  of  a  knight  of  the  days  of 
chivalry,  except  for  his  evening  clothes.  These 
rather  marred  the  picture  for  the  eye;  but  it 
was  plain  to  everyone  that  there  was  chivalry 
in  his  heart,  and  the  great  audience  burst  into 
spontaneous  applause. 

After  the  concert  we  gave  a  supper  at  Del- 
monico's  for  the  conductor.  He  had  begun  his 
career  as  an  orchestra  leader  years  before  un- 
der the  auspices  of  William  Steinway,  and  at 
this  supper  the  latter  made  a  speech,  in  which, 
besides  referring  in  terms  of  high  eulogy  to 
our  guest  of  honor,  he  carried  us  back  to  for- 
mer nights  of  triumph.  We  heard  again  the 
music  and  the  voices  of  other  days. 

I  was  sitting  near  Thomas,  and  could  see 
that  he  was  greatly  affected.  When  he  rose 
to  reply  the  light  glistened  on  moisture  in  his 
eyes,  and  before  he  had  finished  telling  how 
deeply  he  felt  about  the  friendship  that  had 
been  extended  to  him  in  New- York,  and  how 
he  regretted  leaving  the  associations  which 
meant  so  much  to  him,  there  were  many  other 
eyes  at  those  long  tables  that  were  not  dry. 
We  saw  that  night  a  new  phase  of  the  char- 
acter of  Theodore  Thomas. 

After  the  supper  I  hurried  back  to  the 
Garden  to  assist  in  the  counting  up.  Not  long 

192 


afterward  Thomas  went  to  Chicago,  where,  as 
is  well-known,  he  repeated  his  New- York 
successes  and  spread  his  uplifting  influence  in 
the  sphere  of  music.  The  concerts  at  the  Madi- 
son Square  Garden  were  the  last  he  ever  gave 
in  the  Metropolis  with  his  own  orchestra. 


I  had  my  eyes  open  the  next  spring  for  an- 
other orchestra  leader  for  summer  concerts  at 
the  Garden  and  again,  by  a  chance  meeting  on 
Broadway,  I  found  my  man. 

"Hello,  Morrissey,  how  are  you?"  It  was 
a  hearty  voice  that  sounded  in  my  ears,  and 
wheeling  about,  I  looked  into  the  round  face  of 
Patrick  S.  Gilmore. 

"Why,"  I  exclaimed,  "I  thought  you  were 
in  Boston!  What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I  was  in  Boston,  Morrissey;  but  the  Hub 
and  I  have  parted  company.  About  all  that  I 
am  doing  here  can  be  summed  up  by  the  word 
nothing?" 

"What  have  you  in  view?" 

"Again  echo  answers  nothing,"  laughed 
Gilmore. 

"This  is  providential!"  I  exclaimed.  "Have 
you  time  to  come  over  to  Madison  Square 
Garden  with  me?" 

"I  am  killing  time;  bu  I  think  I  can  spare 

193 


a  few  minutes.  I  never  have  been  in  Madison 
Square  Garden  in  my  life,"  Gilmore  told  me  as 
we  walked  across  the  park,  "and  yet  the  build- 
ing that  stood  on  the  same  site  was  called  Gil- 
more's  Garden.  Times  are  not  what  they 
were,  Morrissey." 

"They  are  better/'  I  said.  "Wait  till  you 
see  this  building.  With  all  due  respect  to  you, 
it  is  a  big  improvement  on  Gilmore' s  Garden. 

"Perhaps  so,"  he  answered;  "but  Gilmore 
couldn't  have  a  garden  named  after  him  nowa- 
days. The  fact  is,  I  seemed  to  have  been  edged 
out  of  the  arena,  and  am  having  some  difficulty 
in  locating  the  door  through  which  I  can  pass 
in  again." 

"I  will  show  it  to  you,"  I  said  quickly. 
"That's  what  I  brought  you  over  here  for." 

Before  going  up  to  my  office  in  the  tower  we 
took  a  little  trip  through  the  Garden.  My  com- 
panion was  much  pleased  with  it.  "All  it  needs 
is  a  Gilmore,"  he  laughed. 

"Exactly,"  I  answered.  In  my  office  we 
talked  over  the  subject,  and  drew  up  an  agree- 
ment for  a  season  of  summer  concerts.  Gil- 
more  gathered 'together  his  band,  and  within 
two  weeks  had  begun  an  engagement  which 
was  continued  in  the  summer  for  three  years. 
Afterward  he  conducted  for  a  number  of  sea- 

194 


sons  at  Manhattan  Beach.  Here  and  at  the 
Garden  he  scored  perhaps  the  greatest  tri- 
umphs of  his  career. 


Summer  orchestral  concerts  at  Madison 
Square  Garden  had  become  almost  an  institu- 
tion when  our  contract  with  Gilmore  expired, 
and  since  he  had  signed  for  a  season  at  the  sea- 
shore it  behooved  me  to  find  another  leader.  I 
procured  Anton  Seidl,  a  fine  musician,  as  every- 
body knows.  He  much  resembled  Theodore 
Thomas  in  the  respect  that  all  his  preference 
was  for  music  of  the  highest  class.  Indeed,  he 
continued  in  New- York  his  great  predecessor's 
work  of  educating  the  musical  taste  of  the  peo- 
ple. Yet  he  was  willing  to  tickle  the  ears  of 
his  audience  with  light  and  jaunty  airs.  He 
happily  combined  the  classic  and  the  popular, 
and  his  success  at  the  Garden  was  at  least 
equal  to  that  of  the  others. 

I  used  to  be  hurrying  through  the  streets  to 
the  home  of  Seidl  at  a  time  when  the  birds 
were  caroling  their  first  songs  and  the  fresh- 
ness of  extreme  youth  was  on  the  day.  Sleepy 
housemaids  would  be  coming  out  with  brooms 
to  sweep  the  sidewalk,  boys  would  be  deliver- 
ing papers,  and  tradesmen  unbarring  their 
doors,  as  I  passed  along.  But  I  did  not  ap- 

195 


preciate  these  touches  in  the  awakening  of  a 
great  city,  because  I  knew  that  at  nine  o'clock 
our  printer  would  be  clamoring  for  the  copy 
for  the  program  of  the  evening  concert,  which 
yet  was  to  be  prepared. 

Seidl,  after  the  first  few  days  of  the  engage- 
ment, fell  into  the  habit  of  making  this  out  in 
bed.  While  propped  up  among  the  pillows,  he 
would  scribble  the  selections  on  slips  of  paper, 
and  then  go  back  to  sleep.  I  hadn't  seen  the 
sparkle  of  early  morning  in  some  years  before 
that  summer,  and  hope  it  did  me  good. 

As  I  look  back,  I  am  impressed  by  the  good 
fortune  of  the  management  of  the  Madison 
Square  Garden  in  enlisting  the  services  of 
these  three  men.  Now  that  they  are  dead,  and 
we  can  view  them  and  their  work  somewhat  in 
perspective,  we  see  that  each,  in  his  sphere,  was 
representative,  and  was  possessed  of  a  profes- 
sional and  personal  individuality  that  lifted 
them  far  above  the  average.  Indeed,  they 
reached  the  highest  level  of  influence  and 
achievement  that  orchestra  leaders  in  this 
country  have  yet  attained. 


In  thinking  of  them,  I  am  reminded  of  the 
part  Henry  Ward  Beecher  played  in  a  testi- 
monial concert  which  I  arranged  for  a  musical 

196 


conductor,  Bernard  Mollenhauer.  The  latter 
led  the  orchestra  in  Booth's  Theater,  and  was 
so  conscientious  in  his  work  that  toward  the 
end  of  one  of  the  seasons  at  this  house  we  de- 
cided to  give  him  a  benefit,  and  to  make  it  as 
great  a  success  as  possible  I  went  over  to 
Brooklyn  to  ask  Mr.  Beecher  if  he  would  not 
read,  to  orchestral  acompaniment,  Collins' 
"Ode  to  the  Passions,"  which  he  had  rendered 
with  great  success  not  long  before. 

I  was  received  with  great  cordiality  by  Mr. 
Beecher.  It  was  a  cold  winter  morning,  I 
recollect,  and  on  this  account,  I  suppose,  he 
suggested  a  little  sherry.  Over  our  glasses  we 
discussed  the  question  of  his  reading.  I  told 
him  that  we  had  been  undecided  whether  to 
ask  him  or  Edwin  Booth,  but  finally  had  con- 
cluded that  he  was  the  man  we  wanted. 

"Am  I  to  infer  from  this,"  he  inquired 
laughingly,  "that  you  regard  me  as  the  better 
actor?  Mr.  Booth  and  I  were  rival  attrac- 
tions, to  use  the  theatrical  term,  in  Chicago  not 
long  ago,  and  I  was  surprised  to  learn  that  I 
drew  more  people  than  he  did,  which  I  re- 
garded, of  course,  as  a  highly  complimentary 
circumstance.  I  am  turning  my  drawing 
power  into  money  for  the  church,  and  will 
give  the  reading  for  five  hundred  dollars." 

197 


This  was  perfectly  satisfactory  to  me,  and 
so  Mr.  Beecher,  with  the  accompaniment  of  an 
orchestra  of  seventy-five,  read  Collins'  "Ode 
to  the  Passions,"  as  it  rarely  had  been  read 
before. 


198 


FRANK   TILFORD 


EMMA  JUCH 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  GRAND  MUSICAL  FESTIVAL. 

Some  critics  have  said  that  managers  are  not 
always  entirely  frank  with  the  public  when 
they  announce  extra  matinees.  Indeed,  these 
critics  insist  that  though  the  manager  may  in- 
vite other  theatrical  companies  and  call  it  a 
"professional  performance";  he  may  scatter 
tickets  broadcast  among  the  clergy  with  the 
avowed  purpose  of  having  the  ministers  see  for 
themselves  that  his  play  is  altogether  uplifting 
and  inspiring ;  he  may  throw  open  his  doors  to 
the  children  and  stand  in  the  lobby  smiling  be- 
nignly on  his  little  guests  as  they  flock  in — al- 
ways behind  this  fine  hospitality  there  is  the 
appreciation  of  the  value  of  this  method  of 
stimulating  public  interest  in  the  attraction 
and  bringing  paying  guests  to  the  box-office 
window. 

This  kind  of  criticism,  I  am  free  to  confess, 
was  what  was  chiefly  in  my  mind  in  Baltimore 
when  I  decided  that  his  fellow-players  in  that 
vicinity  should  have  an  opportunity  to  observe 
and  profit  by  the  finished  art  of  Sir  Charles 
Wyndham  at  Ford's  Opera  House.  I  well  knew 
that  the  announcement  that  on  a  certain  day 

201 


we  should  give  a  "professional  matinee"  would 
not  only  cause  fresh  talk  in  the  newspapers  and 
at  dinner-tables,  but  also  would  draw  to  that 
performance  many  of  those  rather  ingenuous 
theater-goers  who  take  an  acute  interest  in 
viewing  actors  and  actresses  off  the  stage,  and 
seemed  never  to  get  over  a  feeling  of  mild  sur- 
prise that  they  are  like  ordinary  mortals,  after 
all. 

The  public  came  in  goodly  numbers  that  aft- 
ernoon, and  I  am  sure  that  they  felt  well  re- 
paid in  the  opportunity  to  bask  in  the  profes- 
sional atmosphere  that  was  introduced  into  the 
house  by  the  stage  people.  Between  the  acts 
there  was  constant  visiting  among  the  boxes 
and  between  little  parties  in  the  orchestra 
chairs.  The  enthusiastic  greetings,  the  kisses, 
handshakes,  easy  exchange  of  first  names  and 
of  theatrical  gossip  gave  the  assemblage  the  air 
of  a  social  function,  and  there  was  that  pleas- 
ant flow  of  comradeship  across  the  footlights 
that  sometimes  is  in  evidence  when  a  consider- 
able number  of  players  are  in  the  house. 

All  this  evidently  was  edifying  to  the  "out- 
siders," who  no  doubt  felt  that  they  were  in 
close  touch,  for  the  time,  with  the  alluring 
realm  of  the  theater.  Yet  it  was  a  mere  surface 
manifestation  of  the  good-fellowship  and  buoy- 


ancy  of  people  of  the  stage.  It  did  not  compare 
in  interest  with  the  little  foregathering  of  some 
of  us  an  hour  before. 

On  the  previous  day  I  had  invited  one  of 
Daniel  Frohman's  companies,  which  was  play- 
ing in  Baltimore,  to  attend  our  performance, 
and  then  had  gone  over  to  Washington  to  an- 
nounce to  the  principal  members  of  the  Bos- 
tonians,  who  were  at  the  National  Theater 
there,  that  our  latch-string  was  out. 

I  first  called  on  Stilson  Hutchins,  proprietor 
and  editor  of  "The  Washington  Post,"  who  as- 
sured me  that  he  would  be  delighted  to  take 
an  afternoon  off  to  see  our  play  in  Baltimore 
in  company  with  the  good  people  I  had  in  mind 
as  guests.  In  fact,  he  was  so  pleased  by  the 
prospect  of  this  little  lark  that  he  said  he  would 
like  to  go  the  rounds  with  me  while  I  extended 
the  invitations. 

We  hailed  a  cab  and  made  morning  calls  at 
the  several  stopping  places  of  the  principals  in 
the  Bostonians.  We  also  looked  in  for  a 
moment  at  the  Capitol,  and  invited  Congress- 
men "Sunset"  Cox  and  Amos  Cummings. 
Hutchins  suggested  as  an  acquisition  to  the 
party  Mrs.  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett,  whom 
he  described  as  a  young  author  bound  to  make 
her  mark.  We  called  upon  and  invited  her, 

203 


and  then  arranged  with  the  railroad  people  for 
a  special  train  of  two  drawing-room  cars.  Our 
last  move  in  the  preparations  was  one  of  the 
most  important.  We  dropped  in  at  Chamber- 
lain's, and  saw  John  himself  about  the  luncheon 
to  be  served  aboard  the  train. 

The  next  morning  I  again  went  to  Wash- 
ington to  act  the  pleasant  part  of  host.  My 
guests  were  all  assembled  when,  at  half-past 
twelve,  the  locomotive  and  two  cars  backed  up 
to  the  station  platform.  The  woftnen  were 
Adelaide  Phillips,  Jessie  Barlett  Davis,  Mrs. 
Burnett,  Geraldine  Ulmar,  Marie  Stone  and 
Miss  Ober  (who  was  the  original  organizer  of 
the  Bostonians,  under  the  name  of  the  Boston 
Ideals,  and  who  then  was  managing  the  com- 
pany with  great  ability). 

As  a  setting  for  these  fair  ones,  we  had 
Myron  Whitney  (the  great  basso),  Henry 
Clay  Barnabee,  W.  H.  McDonald,  "Sunset" 
Cox,  Amos  Cummings,  Harry  Rapley  (pro- 
prietor of  the  National  Theater),  and  some 
others. 

Since  I  knew  that  the  trip  to  Baltimore 
would  be  all  too  short,  I  had  given  orders  that 
the  luncheon  be  ready  to  serve,  and  so  when  we 
boarded  the  train  the  tables  were  glistening 
and  the  waiters  stood  at  "attention."  We  lost 

204 


no  time  in  going  into  action.  With  the  land- 
scape sliding  by  swiftly  we  despatched  that 
luncheon.  Toward  its  close  somebody  pro- 
posed the  health  of  the  host,  and  I  bowed  mod- 
estly. This  was  the  beginning.  We  drank 
the  health  of  everybody,  made  Mr.  Cox  deliver 
a  speech,  and  compelled  Amos  Cummings  to 
tell  some  stories,  which  he  did  as  only  Amos 
could.  We  had  begun  a  round  robin  of  anec- 
dotes, punctuated  with  gusts  of  laughter,  when 
Sam  Studley,  the  musical  director  of  the  Bos- 
tonians,  discovered  in  the  other  car  an  upright 
piano.  "Last  call  for  the  concert  in  the  music- 
car  I"  he  announced  loudly  in  the  doorway.  We 
filed  in,  and  he  began  to  make  the  piano  ring- 
above  the  roar  of  the  train  with  a  wild  tune 
from  "The  Pirates  of  Penzance."  We  all  be- 
gan to  sing.  Some  of  us  were  accomplished 
singers,  and  some  were  far  from  it,  but  nobody 
was  deterred  by  a  lack  of  vocal  ability  from 
lifting  up  his  voice.  We  caroled  with  such  fer- 
vor that  gatemen  at  the  crossings  grinned  as 
they  lowered  their  flags,  and  people  in  houses 
along  the  line  came  running  to  the  windows, 
and  placid  cows  in  meadows  raised  their  heads 
in  mild  amazement. 

But  we  cared  not  for  the  opinion  of  the  cows. 
The  swift  spirit  of  the  rushing  train  was  in 

205 


our  veins.  We  skipped  nimbly  from  one  air 
to  another,  with  Studley  pounding  the  piano 
furiously  all  the  while.  He  struck  into  a  fast 
waltz,  and  we  began  to  dance.  Then  we  burst 
into  song  again.  At  the  stations  as  we  shot  by 
we  had  quick  visions  of  people  standing  rigid 
with  astonishment.  They  had  heard  us  com- 
ing, and  we  must  have  left  behind  a  trail  of 
music.  I  have  no  idea  that  any  such  train  ever 
had  passed  along  the  road  before.  I  am  sure 
that  our  conductor  and  brakeman  never  had 
had  any  company  like  ours  as  passengers. 
They  stood  in  the  door,  our  sole  audience,  with 
smiles  of  wonder  on  their  faces. 

But  in  the  midst  of  this  hilarious  concert  on 
the  train  the  locomotive  whistle  joined  the 
chorus  with  a  long  shriek.  It  well  might  have 
been  a  shriek  of  protest,  but  it  was  merely  an- 
nouncing that  Baltimore  was  at  hand.  We 
alighted  from  that  train  tired  out  from  song 
and  laughter,  but  we  had  had  a  glorious  hour. 
Of  all  those  of  my  life  I  remember  none  more 
filled  with  abandonment  to  the  merrymaking 
spirit.  Only  children,  I  may  say  in  passing, 
yield  to  this  spirit  as  readily  as  do  stage  folk, 
which  accounts,  perhaps,  for  some  of  the  fail- 
ings of  the  latter  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  at 
large.  

206 


QUEEN    VICTORIA 


ZELIE    DE    LUSSAN 


I  was  particularly  glad  to  have  the  Boston- 
ians  with  me  that  day,  because  I  long  had  taken 
a  special  interest  in  the  company.  This  was 
due  to  the  fact  that  its  first  important  prima 
donna  was  Zelie  de  Lussan,  an  old  friend  of 
mine.  Zelie,  despite  her  name,  was  a  New 
York  girl.  She  was  graduated  from  the  fam- 
ous public  school  on  Twelfth  street,  and  had  a 
rapid  rise  as  a  singer. 

While  successful  in  this  country,  she  has 
scored  her  greatest  triumphs  in  England,  not 
the  least  of  which  were  commands,  on  several 
occasions,  to  sing  before  Queen  Victoria  at 
Windsor  Castle.  She  is  said  to  have  enjoyed 
this  honor  more  times  than  any  other  singer, 
with  the  exception  of  Madam  Albani,  who  also 
began  her  professional  career  in  the  United 
States,  having  been  educated  in  Albany,  from 
which  city  she  adapted  her  stage  name,  Albani. 

Zelie  de  Lussan  has  told  me  that  the  Queen's 
preferences  in  music  were  not  exactly  those  of 
one  deeply  versed  in  it.  She  liked  simple, 
catchy  airs  the  best,  and  never  tired  of  the 
same  ones.  Her  favorite  operas  were  "Mar- 
tha," "The  Daughter  of  the  Regiment,"  and 
"The  Lily  of  Killarney,"  and  almost  invariably 
it  was  from  these  that  Zelie  was  asked  to  sing 
when  she  was  summoned  to  Windsor  Castle. 


207 


She  is  still  in  harness,  being  one  of  the  prima 
donnas  in  the  Moody-Manners  Opera  Com- 
pany, which  is  popular  in  the  English  prov- 
inces. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  singers  and 
players  retain  their  popularity  in  Great  Britain 
much  longer  than  they  do  in  this  country. 
Here  the  newest  stars  are  hailed  with  an  ac- 
claim that  drowns  the  voices  of  the  favorites 
of  the  past.  Those  who  can  point  to  successes 
of  twenty  years  ago  usually  have  to  rest  con- 
tent with  these.  In  the  swift  rushing  of  the 
stream  they  are  left  in  eddies.  But  the  English 
do  not  so  easily  forget  their  idols. 

It  was  sometime  ago,  for  instance,  that 
Madam  Albani  burst  into  the  flower  of  prima 
donnahood.  She  married  Ernest  Gye,  impres- 
ario of  Covent  Garden,  London,  and  was  prima 
donna  assoluta  there  when  Emma  Abbott  made 
her  English  debut  at  Covent  Garden.  In  fact, 
it  was  because  Madam  conceived  a  great  fond- 
ness for  the  little  American  girl  that  she  pre- 
vailed upon  her  husband,  the  impresario,  to 
give  Emma  her  London  opportunity.  This  was 
not  yesterday,  and  yet  Madam  Albani  still  is 
singing  with  success  in  concert  in  Great 
Britain. 


There  is  nothing  I  have  disliked  more  since  I 
began  to  "strut  my  hour"  upon  the  stage  of  life 
than  "rest"  during  the  summer  months,  when 
so  many  theater  doors  are  boarded  up.  I  have 
tried  to  avoid  this  period  of  inglorious  ease, 
and  usually  have  succeeded.  One  summer  my 
desire  for  activity  led  to  an  idea  for  a  musical 
festival  at  Saratoga.  I  gathered  together  a 
concert  company,  in  which  the  principals  were 
Emma  Juch  (now  Mrs.  Francis  Wellman), 
Teresa  Carreno  (the  celebrated  pianist),  Ro- 
salba  Beecher  (a  relative  of  the  great  pulpit 
orator),  Signor  Brignoli,  Signor  Tagliapietra 
and  Signor  Tomasi.  Then  I  went  to  Colonel 
Mapleson,  who  had  come  to  this  country  after 
great  success  as  an  impresario  in  England,  and 
told  him  that  I  wanted  to  use  his  name  in  con- 
nection with  my  company,  and  after  naming 
its  leading  members,  asked  him  what  it  would 
cost  me  to  open  in  Saratoga  under  the  prestige 
of  his  great  reputation.  The  Colonel  was  in 
jovial  mood  that  day. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "it  needn't  cost  you 
a  cent.  You  have  a  concert  organization  that  I 
would  be  proud  of,  and  will  be  glad  to  father. 
If  you  make  money,  you  may  send  me  a  check 
for  any  amount  you  think  proper,  if  you  feel 

209 


like  it.    If  you  don't  make  money,  you  may  for- 
get all  about  it,  and  so  will  I." 

Thus  it  was  that  I  took  the  Mapleson  Oper- 
atic Company  to  Saratoga.  But  before  com- 
pleting arrangements  I  had  canvassed  the  vil- 
lage among  those  who  had  gone  to  that  gay 
resort  to  drink  the  waters  and  other  beverages, 
and  had  received  some  large  subscriptions. 
Judge  Hilton,  who  was  managing  the  Grand 
Union  Hotel  for  the  A.  T.  Stewart  estate,  ap- 
preciated the  fact  that  concerts  of  the  quality  I 
purposed  to  give  would  be  a  good  thing  for  the 
town  and  for  his  hotel,  and  had  gone  into  the 
venture  with  me  to  the  extent  of  a  thousand 
dollars.  Thomas  F.  Gilroy,  afterward  Mayor 
of  New  York  City,  had  told  me  that  he  would 
guarantee  me  against  any  loss.  Some  others 
likewise  had  been  liberal. 

Everything  augured  success  when  I  went  to 
Saratoga  for  the  final  preparations;  but  still  I 
had  a  perplexity.  Emma  Juch  had  expressed 
a  strong  desire  to  sing  "The  Inflammatus," 
from  "The  Stabat  Mater,"  and  because  I  ad- 
mired her  greatly  both  as  a  singer  and  as  a 
woman  I  was  keenly  anxious  to  please  her. 
But  how  it  could  be  done  was  a  difficult  prob- 
lem, since  "The  Inflammatus/'  to  be  rendered 
with  anything  like  the  effectiveness  that  I  felt 

210 


it  should  be  given  in  justice  to  Miss  Juch,  our 
patrons  and  the  company  required  a  chorus  of 
at  least  eighty  or  a  hundred  voices. 

I  knew  well  that  I  could  not  afford  to  bring 
any  such  number  of  singers  from  New  York 
for  the  few  concerts  I  intended  to  give,  and  so 
what  to  do  about  this  number  became  a  ques- 
tion that  had  some  of  the  inflamed  quality  sug- 
gested by  the  title  of  the  selection. 

Finally,  at  the  last  minute,  I  bethought  me 
of  choir  singers  in  the  churches  of  the  town, 
and  with  a  hot  July  sun  beating  down  upon 
me  visited  the  ministers.  They  all  were  dis- 
posed favorably  toward  my  idea,  since  "The  In- 
flammatus"  was  an  inspired  treatment  in  music 
of  a  holy  theme.  The  pastor  of  the  Episcopal 
Church  was  particularly  gracious.  He  called 
in  his  two  daughters,  clever  and  energetic 
young  women,  who  at  once  became  so  enthusi- 
astic over  the  project  that  they  volunteered  to 
go  out  themselves,  that  morning,  and  garner 
as  many  singers  as  they  knew. 

With  fresh  zest  I  made  the  rounds  of  choir- 
masters, and  called  on  singers  myself.  It  was 
hard  work,  but  with  the  ministers,  choir-mas- 
ters and  the  two  young  women  enlisted  in  it, 
we  recruited  in  two  or  three  days  fully  a  hun- 
dred vocalists,  who  were  not  only  willing  but 

211 


anxious  to  have  a  part  in  the  musical  festival. 

Miss  Juch  and  our  choir  singers  gave  an 
impressive  rendition  of  "The  Inflammatus." 
One  might  have  thought  that  this  sonorous 
piece  of  music,  overflowing  with  a  solemn  re- 
ligious spirit,  would  not  have  appealed  to  the 
gay  and  worldly  Saratoga  throng;  but  it  fell 
on  fallow  ground.  Each  time  it  was  given  the 
house  rose  to  it,  as  if  those  people  had  been 
thirsting,  amid  frivolities,  for  a  note  of  ear- 
nestness. I  never  have  seen  greater  enthusi- 
asm, even  in  audiences  of  German  or  Italian 
music-lovers  in  New  York. 

The  program-maker  does  well  to  remember 
that  the  human  intellect  takes  an  instinctive  joy 
in  contrasts.  I  had  this  in  mind  at  Saratoga, 
with  the  result  that  before  our  auditors  had  re- 
verted to  their  normal  feelings,  after  having 
been  lifted  out  of  themselves  by  the  strength 
of  "The  Inflammatus/'  Rosalba  Beecher,  a 
charming  woman,  would  trip  down  to  the  foot- 
lights and  sing  with  exquisite  gaiety  and  grace 
a  dainty  little  song  called  "No,  Sir."  This  was 
like  the  joyous  singing  of  a  bird  after  thunder, 
and  the  audience,  released  from  its  tension, 
would  sweep  to  Rosalba  with  an  avalanche  of 
applause. 

After  the  first  concert  Mrs.  A.  T.  Stewart 


sent  her  card  to  the  stage,  asking  if  she  could 
see  Miss  Beecher.  I  escorted  the  widow  of  the 
millionaire  merchant  to  the  singer's  dressing- 
room. 

"I  can't  tell  you,  Miss  Beecher,"  said  Mrs. 
Stewart,  "how  delighted  I  have  been  with  your 
singing,  and  with  yourself,  too.  What  I  am 
going  to  say  may  seem  rather  abrupt  and  odd 
from  one  who  is  a  stranger  to  you,  but  I  want 
to  know  if  you  won't  be  my  guest  at  the  Grand 
Union  for  the  remainder  of  the  summer.  I 
should  like  very  much  to  have  you  give  a  song 
recital  in  the  big  parlors,  for  the  benefit  of 
yourself.  I  will  be  your  first  patroness." 

This,  of  course,  was  highly  complimentary 
to  Miss  Beecher,  and  she  flushed  with  pleasure. 
But  she  was  under  contract  to  go  to  Newport 
with  the  concert  company,  and  so  she  turned  to 
me  with  a  look  of  inquiry. 

"I  won't  stand  in  your  way  in  this  opportun- 
ity, Miss  Beecher,"  I  said  quickly.  "You  will 
have  a  delightful  time  here  as  the  guest  of  Mrs. 
Stewart,  and  your  testimonial  will  bring  you 
more  money  than  I  could  pay  you.  I  will  come 
back  and  manage  it  if  you  say  so." 

Thus  I  lost  a  valuable  member  of  my  com- 
pany; but  I  did  go  back  and  manage  the  testi- 
monial, which  brought  Miss  Beecher  about  two 

213 


thousand  dollars.  Never  in  her  life,  she  told 
me,  had  she  enjoyed  herself  as  during  those 
weeks  in  Saratoga.  She  might  have  become  a 
famous  artiste,  but  just  as  she  was  beginning 
to  develop  her  abilities  matrimony  intervened. 


Apropos  of  Grand  Opera ;  shortly  after  this, 
I  occupied  the  position  of  business  manager  of 
the  American  School  of  Opera,  then  located 
at  Forty-fourth-st,  near  Fifth-ave.,  there  were 
over  one  hundred  advanced  students  in  the 
school  and  six  excellent  teachers,  or  "profes- 
sors" as  they  gloried  in  being  called.  Both 
professors  and  students  were  "well  up"  in  the 
various  popular  operas,  and  weekly  perform- 
ances of  Faust,  Martha,  Carmen,  Lucia,  II 
Trovatore  and  Rigoletto  were  given  to  the 
thorough  satisfaction  of  all  concerned. 

'  The  time  came,  when  the  ladies  and  gentle- 
men of  the  Opera  School  were  in  arrears  with 
their  payments,  due  for  the  knowledge  gained 
in  the  institution,  which  was  to  make  them,  per- 
haps, prima  donnas,  tenors,  contraltos,  bari- 
tones and  bassos  of  famous  organizations  in 
Europe  or  America.  There  were  no  funds. 
The  teachers  must  be  paid  at  least  two  weeks' 
salary — three  were  due  them — or  the  school 
must  be  put  out  of  commission  that  night,  and 

214 


the  pupils  whose  homes  were  in  all  parts  of 
the  United  States  must  say  good-by  to  opera 
and  take  quick  trains  for  their  various  des- 
tinations. 

The  directors  held  a  hurried  meeting,  ways 
and  means  were  gone  over  a  dozen  times,  be- 
coming more  alarming  each  time,  and  everyone 
was  notified  of  the  inevitable  end.  Despair, 
sorrow,  anxiety,  tears  were  visible  on  every 
side. 

"Necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention" — 
or  .inspiration,  and  I  had  one,  or  both.  With 
the  rapidity  of  lightning  I  put  on  my  hat  and 
coat,  whispered  a  few  words  to  the  president 
and  left  the  room.  Hailing  a  cab  at  the  door 
I  cried,  "Mr.  Frank  Tilford,  Broadway  and 
Twenty-first-st"  To  him  I  breathlessly  re- 
lated my  sad  story.  He  laughed  aloud,  drew  a 
check  quicker  than  I  could  talk,  and  said,  "Will 
that  answer  ?  If  so,  take  it  to  help  the  Institu- 
tion along.  I  love  music,  Mr.  Morrissey  and  I 
shall  be  happy  if  this  will  enable  your  worthy 
school  to  continue." 

I  lost  my  power  of  speech ;  pressed  his  hand, 
and  hastened  to  make  one  hundred  people  shed 
tears  of  joy. 

A  thousand  "little  mothers"  had  the  happiest 
day  of  their  lives,  one  recent  Christmas,  for 

215 


they  were  having  their  annual  festival  dinner 
provided  for  them  by  Frank  Tilford.  It  was 
the  best  dinner,  the  best  entertainment,  and  the 
presents  the  best  the  children  ever  had.  The 
Murray  Hill  Lyceum,  where  the  festivities 
were  held,  was  draped  solidly  with  American 
flags.  Over  the  platform  were  the  words, 
"Welcome  Little  Mothers"  in  electric  lights, 
and  on  the  platform  itself  were  two  enormous 
Christmas  trees,  and  back  of  them  there  were 
presents  enough  banked  up  to  fill  a  toy  shop. 

The  "little  mothers"  themselves  were  so 
gayly  dressed  that  no  one  could  have  guessed 
they  came  from  the  very  poorest  parts  of 
Manhattan  and  Brooklyn;  but  here  and  there 
were  little  girls  who  could  not  have  come  at  all 
if  the  Little  Mothers'  Aid  Association  had  not 
sent  stockings  to  cover  their  little  bare  limbs. 
There  were  others  who,  after  they  reached  the 
Hall,  received  petticoats  to  put  under  their  thin 
frocks.  Half  the  children  did  not  have  hats. 
They  did  not  mind  that  so  much,  though,  and 
not  at  all  after  they  sat  down  to  the  dinner. 
For  who  would  ever  have  guessed  it?  At  each 
plate  were  snapping  favors,  with  a  flag  in 
them.  When  the  children  learned  the  secret 
there  was  a  vigorous  popping  all  over  the  hall, 
and  suddenly  the  little  girls  blossomed  out  like 

216 


fairies,  with  pink  caps  and  blue  caps  and  red 
and  yellow  ones. 

The  children  shrieked  with  delight  when 
they  saw  the  tables  and  cried,  "Oh,  what  pretty 
bouquets !"  But  they  were  not  bouquets,  only 
clean  quite  napkins  standing  up  in  fancy 
shapes. 

Guests  more  patient  and  appreciative  could 
hardly  have  been  found,  but  turkey  and  plum 
pudding  disappeared  as  if  by  magic,  and  it 
seemed  an  almost  impossible  task  to  keep  the 
plates  from  being  empty.  Three  "little  moth- 
ers"— three  of  the  smallest — made  such  an  in- 
defatigable assault  on  the  good  things  pro- 
vided, that  they  compassed  their  own  ignomini- 
ous defeat,  and  a  physician  who  was  present 
had  to  minister  to  them  before  they  recovered 
from  their  pains. 

There  were  bouquets  of  celery,  and  chicken 
soup  with  rice,  1,300  pounds  of  turkey,  with 
all  the  "fixin's,"  200  pies  of  all  kinds,  plum 
pudding,  fruit,  and  ice  cream. 

There  were  1,050  little  people  who  sat  down 
to  dinner,  for  while  1,000  "little  mothers"  were 
invited,  there  are  always  other  little  children 
who  appear  at  the  last  moment,  and  are  so 
lonely  and  hungry  that  they  are  asked  to  come 
in,  too. 

217 


Before  they  were  seated,  the  children  caught 
sight  of  Mr.  Tilford  in  a  box,  and  gave  a  great 
shout,  though  that  was  not  down  on  the  pro- 
gram. Their  official  greeting  to  him  came 
later,  when  they  said,  in  a  great  chorus  of 
small  voices:  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Tilford.  We 
wish  you  a  merry  Christmas." 

And  how  they  greeted  the  Punch  and  Judy 
show,  and  the  singers,  the  harp,  and  the 
sleight-of-hand  tricks!  As  they  marched  out, 
each  one  received  a  gay-colored  bag  containing 
a  huge  doll,  a  bag  of  candy,  a  handkerchief, 
and  a  pair  of  stockings.  Thus  did  Mr.  Tilford 
bring  supreme  happiness  and  delight  into  the 
lives  of  these  little  toilers  of  the  slums ! 


218 


JULIA    ALLEN 


TENNIE  C.  CLAFLIN 


VICTORIA  WOODHULL 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

ITALY  AND  IRELAND. 

I  presume  that  everybody  is  familiar  with 
the  vocal  efforts  of  the  neighborhood  prima 
donna,  whose  voice  floats  out  from  a  window 
somewhere  along  the  block,  and  pierces  the 
peaceful  air  in  crescendos  that  are  long  drawn 
out  and  melancholy. 

Living  in  an  ambitiously  musical  section  of 
New  York  city,  I  had  become  so  accustomed 
to  feminine  voices  coming  into  my  windows 
from  over  the  back  yards  that  for  a  long  time 
one  Sunday  morning  in  the  early  summer  I  sat 
in  a  lounging  chair,  half  buried  in  "colored 
comic  supplements"  without  particularly  notic- 
ing the  music  that  was  in  my  ears.  It  was  just 
a  pleasing  accompaniment  to  the  twitter  of  the 
birds,  and  was  so  soothing,  so  much  akin  to  the 
sunbeams  that  were  dancing  in  through  the 
open  window  by  which  I  sat,  and  to  the  flowers 
blooming  in  the  window-box,  that  for  awhile  I 
accepted  it  in  a  subconscious  way,  as  a  part  of 
the  spirit  of  spring  that  was  all  around. 

By  degrees,  however,  I  became  an  active  lis- 
tener. My  professional  instincts  were  aroused ; 
I  noted  a  flexibility  and  joyous  resonance  in 
that  voice  not  found  in  those  of  ordinary  cali- 

221 


her.  Arias  from  "La  Traviata,"  "Lucia"  and 
"Faust"  had  been  falling  sweetly  on  my  ears. 
Suddenly  the  waltz  song  from  "Romeo  and 
Juliet"  swelled  out  in  triumph.  I  could  contain 
myself  no  longer. 

"Mamma,  I'm  going  to  hunt  down  that 
voice !"  I  exclaimed  to  Mrs.  Morrissey,  tossing 
aside  the  forty-eight  pages  of  the  Sunday  news- 
paper. 

"Oh,  nonsense !"  she  replied,  laughing.  "How 
are  you  going  to  do  it?  Make  a  house-to- 
house  canvass,  saying  you  are  searching  for  a 
voice  ?" 

"It  won't  be  hard  to  locate,"  I  declared.  "It 
comes  from  one  of  the  houses  nearly  opposite 
here.  All  I  have  to  do  is  to  go  around  the  cor- 
ner. I'll  guarantee  that  I  shall  ring  the  right 
door-bell  the  first  or  second  time  I  try,  and  as 
a  signal  that  I  have  succeeded  you  will  hear 
the  waltz  song  from  'Romeo  and  Juliet'  again." 

With  the  domestic  admonition  not  to  be  gone 
all  day  in  my  ears,  I  started  on  my  quest  for  the 
voice.  I  went  around  to  Eighty-fourth-st,  and 
as  luck  would  have  it  saw  beneath  a  bell  in  the 
first  vestibule  the  name  of  Cleary,  which  was 
that  of  a  famous  contralto.  I  touched  the  bell, 
and  in  a  moment  was  greeted  by  a  pleasant- 
faced  woman. 


"Does  Miss  Cleary  live  here?"  I  asked  her. 

"Why,  no,"  she  answered;  "but  I  am  her 
mother,  and  I  think  I  know  who  you  are.  You 
are  Mr.  Morrissey." 

"I  am,"  I  said,  with  the  blush  of  course  that 
this  recognition  demanded,  "and  I  am  search- 
ing for  a  voice.  At  my  home  on  the  next  street 
I  have  been  gladdened  for  an  hour  this  morn- 
ing by  beautiful  singing.  In  my  enthusiasm  I 
have  come  out  to  locate  its  source,  and  yours 
has  been  the  first  bell  I've  rung." 

"Well,  I'm  very  glad  you  have  come  here," 
said  the  mother  of  the  singer,  "because  I  too 
have  been  mystified  by  that  voice,  and  am  en- 
tirely consumed  with  curiosity  to  know  who  its 
owner  may  be.  But  I  think  I  can  show  you 
where  she  lives,  if  you  will  come  in."  Mrs. 
Cleary  pointed  out  a  house  that  was  just  two 
doors  from  the  one  in  which  I  lived. 

"Remarkable!"  I  exclaimed.  "I  could  have 
sworn  that  the  voice  came  from  this  direction." 

"Don't  you  see,"  laughingly  inquired  Mrs. 
Cleary,  "that  this  wall  acts  as  a  sounding- 
board,  and  throws  the  voice  back  into  your 
windows  ?" 

"I  see  now,"  I  answered,  "and  I  am  going 
right  around  to  that  house  to  see  the  myster- 
ious singer." 

223 


"If  you  bring  out  a  new  prima  donna,  Mr. 
Morrissey,"  called  Mrs.  Cleary  when  I  was 
half-way  down  the  hall,  "don't  forget  to  give 
me  some  of  the  credit  for  putting  you  on  her 
track." 

Mrs.  Cleary  was  right  about  the  house.  I 
was  met  at  the  door  of  the  apartment  by  a 
young  woman  of  much  charm  of  face  and  man- 
ner, who  laughed  gaily  when,  after  informing 
her  who  I  was,  I  explained  that  I  had  heard  a 
voice  which  aroused  an  enthusiasm  that  would 
not  let  me  rest  until  I  had  found  its  owner, 
however  long  the  search. 

"Well,"  the  young  woman  replied,  "its 
owner  stands  before  you,  found !  I  have  been 
rather  expecting  that  the  neighborhood  would 
be  heard  from.  I  thought  probably  that  I 
should  be  waited  upon  by  a  committee  with  a 
request  to  please  desist." 

"That  could  not  possibly  happen,"  I  replied 
quickly.  "Why,  do  you  know  what  you're 
doing?  You  are  transforming  back  windows 
into  opera  boxes." 

My  singer  asked  me  to  sit  down,  and  we  had 
a  little  talk,  in  the  course  of  which  she  told  me 
that  her  name  was  Julia  Allen,  that  she  had 
been  graduated  from  the  New-England  Con- 
servatory of  Music,  and  had  come  from  Bing- 


hamton,  her  home,  to  New- York,  to  make  a 
place  for  herself  in  the  musical  world;  but,  not 
knowing  just  how  to  get  a  hearing,  had  con- 
tented herself  up  to  that  time  with  practising 
and  some  church  singing. 

But  at  the  beginning  of  our  conversation  I 
told  her  that  I  had  heard  her  sing  the  waltz 
song  from  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  and  asked  her 
if  she  would  mind  repeating  it.  While  this 
delighted  me,  it  was  chiefly  for  the  benefit  of 
Mrs.  Morrissey. 

On  my  return  home  I  greeted  her  with  a 
superior  smile. 

"Yes,  I  heard  it,"  she  acknowledged;  "but 
where  did  you  find  her?" 

I  told  her. 

"Oh,  it  was  just  by  a  lucky  chance,  then.  If 
it  hadn't  been  for  that,  you  would  have  been 
ringing  door-bells  on  the  next  street  yet." 

I  called  several  times  on  Miss  Allen,  and 
obtained  an  engagement  for  her  to  sing,  chiefly 
by  way  of  practice  in  public  appearances,  with 
some  of  our  best  orchestras  and  Musical  Festi- 
vals. The  directors  were  delighted,  and  pre- 
dicted a  great  future  for  her.  Her  ambitions 
soared  even  higher  than  they  had  before,  and 
she  asked  my  advice  about  going  to  Italy  to 
have  her  vocal  education  rounded  out.  I 

225 


strongly  indorsed  this  idea,  and  arranged  a  tes- 
timonial concert  to  help  her  on  her  way. 

It  had  this  result,  being  successful  both 
musically  and  financially.  Miss  Allen  now  is 
winning  triumphs  in  leading  operatic  roles  in 
the  Old  World  centers  of  music.  She  is  in 
great  demand  among  European  impresarios; 
but  in  a  season  or  two  will  return  to  her  native 
land,  when  the  United  States  will  have  a  new 
grand-opera  prima  donna  of  whom  it  well  may 
be  proud. 

When  Miss  Allen  was  in  New- York  my 
friend  Signor  de  Machi  gave  her  instruction  in 
Italian  vocal  lessons.  I  saw  him  often,  and  one 
day  asked  him  to  accompany  me  to  the  house  of 
John  D.  Crimmins.  After  Mr.  Crimmins  and 
I  had  discussed  a  little  question  of  business,  he 
suggested  that  perhaps  de  Machi  and  myself 
would  be  interested  in  his  music-room  and  art- 
gallery.  Receiving  our  assurance  that  we 
should  be  much  interested,  Mr.  Crimmins  led 
us  through  several  beautiful  apartments.  We 
admired  the  pictures  and  statuary,  and  were 
particularly  impressed  by  a  bust  of  one  of  his 
daughters,  done  in  Italian  marble  by  an  Italian 
sculptor  of  celebrity. 

Finally  we  sat  down  near  this  work  of  art, 
and  our  host,  being  in  a  mood  to  talk,  and  inter- 

226 


ested  in  de  Machi,  proceeded  to  draw  him  out. 
The  conversation  turned  on  Italians  in  the 
United  States. 

"Why  is  it,  signor,"  asked  Mr.  Crimmins, 
"that  your  countrymen  who  come  over  here  do 
not  become  more  assimilated  with  American 
life?  You  cut  little  figure  in  the  political  and 
industrial  life  of  the  nation,  while  the  Irish, 
of  which  land  Mr.  Morrissey  and  myself  have 
the  honor  to  be  representatives,  have  got  hold 
pretty  well  of  the  reins  of  power  and  influence 
in  the  United  States.  You  Italians  should  be 
more  adaptable.  You  would  make  better  citi- 
zens if  you  were." 

This,  and  considerably  more  to  the  same 
effect,  Mr.  Crimmins  said  in  a  tone  of  good- 
natured  raillery,  which,  however,  was  entirely 
lost  on  de  Machi,  who  was  a  patriotic  Roman, 
and  somewhat  lacking  in  a  sense  of  humor. 
I,  who  understood  his  fiery  and  explosive  tem- 
perament, saw  that  he  thought  our  host  was 
making  a  serious  attack  upon  his  nationality. 
Beneath  an  outward  calm  his  rage  was  rising, 
and  was  growing  more  intense,  I  perceived, 
because  of  his  inability  to  adequately  express 
himself,  his  command  of  the  English  language 
not  being  of  the  best. 

I  expected  every  instant  to  see  him  rise  and 

227 


leave  with  much  more  abruptness  than  polite- 
ness, a  proceeding  which  would  not  have  suited 
me  at  all,  since  a  breach  between  him  and  our 
host  would  have  been  disastrous  to  the  little 
enterprise  we  had  discussed.  De  Machi's 
shrugs  and  rather  contemptuous  waving  of 
the  arms  had  not  warned  Mr.  Crimmins. 

"When  Italians  come  over  here/'  he  re- 
marked, "they  begin  with  a  hand-organ  or  pea- 
nut-stand, and  end  with  one." 

De  Machi  began  to  sputter  in  excited  words, 
beside  himself,  but  I  caused  him  to  pause  by 
rising  quickly  from  my  chair  and  laying  my 
fingers  on  the  marble  bust. 

"It  cannot  be  denied,"  I  said,  "that  no 
Italians  in  New- York  are  ward  leaders,  and 
there  are  a  good  many  more  Irishmen  on  the 
police  force;  but  imagine  an  Irishman  making 
anything  like  this!" 

The  suggestion  seemed  so  ludicrous  that  Mr. 
Crimmins  began  to  laugh,  while  de  Machi's 
dark  eyes  glowed  with  satisfaction. 

"It  iss  true  what  you  say,  -signer,"  he  cried, 
jumping  to  his  feet  excitedly.  "Ze  Roman 
make  ze  beautiful  statue,  paint  ze  fine  picture, 
write  ze  great  opera,  while  ze  Irishman — " 
Words  failed  de  Machi,  and  he  finished  his  sen- 

228 


tence  with  a  shrug  and  a  wide  outspreading  of 
the  palms  that  expressed  much. 

"Of  course,  it's  true!"  agreed  our  host, 
rising  and  shaking  our  eager  Roman  by  the 
hand.  "In  the  fine  arts  there's  no  comparison 
between  the  Italians  and  the  Irish." 

This  completely  mollified  de  Machi,  and  a 
little  later,  when  he  and  Mr.  Crimmins  sepa- 
rated, they  were  the  best  of  friends,  and  my 
project  was  saved  from  being  wrecked  upon  a 
rock  of  international  disagreement. 


The  recent  visit  to  the  United  States  of 
Lady  Cook,  who  was  Miss  Tennie  C.  Claflin, 
commonly  called  "Tennessee"  Claflin  by  the 
newspapers,  recalls  to  me  some  memories  of 
her  and  her  elder  sister  Victoria  Woodhull. 

In  an  office-building  on  Broad-st.,  New- 
York,  near  the  Stock  Exchange,  there  once 
was  a  gilt  sign  bearing  the  inscription,  "Wood- 
hull  &  Claflin,  Brokers."  One  never  would 
have  suspected  from  this  sign,  nor  even  from 
the  luxuriously  furnished  offices  behind  the 
glass  doors,  that  the  members  of  this  firm  were 
not  ordinary  Wall  Street  workers  of  the  mas- 
culine persuasion;  but  I  knew  well  that  they 
were  two  remarkably  charming  women  who 
had  made  reputations  as  lecturers  and  writers 

229 


before  going  into  Wall  Street  to  harvest 
wealth. 

I  thought  of  the  brokerage  firm  of  Wood- 
hull  &  Claflin  one  night  toward  the  close  of  a 
season  of  Sunday-night  concerts  which  Joseph 
H.  Tooker  and  I  were  giving  at  the  Grand 
Opera  House.  We  had  been  drawing  our 
singers  and  instrumentalists  from  the  opera 
company  under  the  direction  of  Max  and 
Maurice  Strakosch  at  the  Academy  of  Music, 
but  had  had  all  who  were  worth  having,  and 
were  pondering  that  evening  on  the  introduc- 
tion of  some  novel  attraction  to  revive  interest 
in  our  waning  season. 

"Why  not  get  Victoria  Woodhull  to  deliver 
a  lecture  on  the  bulls  and  bears  of  Wall 
Street?"  I  asked.  "Tennie  Claflin,  who  is  just 
as  accomplished  a  talker  as  her  sister,  can  give 
us  something  too." 

"Great!"  said  Tooker.  "Suppose,  Jimmie, 
that  you  go  right  down  there  to-morrow  morn- 
ing and  beard  the  lionesses  in  their  den  ?" 

I  went,  and  was  received  by  Mrs.  Woodhull, 
a  handsome  woman,  with  a  stateliness  of  man- 
ner that  made  a  great  impression  upon  me,  as 
it  must  have  upon  the  many  patrons  who  were 
wont  to  go  there  to  invest  their  money. 

When   I   had  explained  my  mission,   Mrs. 

230 


Woodhull  sent  for  Miss  Claflin,  a  young 
woman  with  beautiful  eyes  and  complexion, 
and  a  charming  manner  with  a  touch  of  tim- 
idity in  it  that  was  exceedingly  alluring,  but 
rather  odd,  I  thought,  in  a  Wall  Street  broker. 
The  sisters  gave  a  favorable  ear  to  my  pro- 
posal. We  discussed  terms — they  were  excel- 
lent business  women — and  soon  came  to  an 
agreement. 

Their  fellow-brokers  quickly  got  wind  of  the 
proposed  dissertations  on  the  methods  of  the 
"Street,"  and  began  to  invest  heavily  in  tickets. 
In  fact,  before  the  night  of  the  entertainment 
the  house  was  sold  out  almost  wholly  to  Wall 
Street  men. 

We  heard  rumors  to  the  effect  that  they 
purposed  to  give  their  feminine  competitors  an 
ovation  such  as  is  customary  on  the  floor  of 
the  Exchange,  and  to  overawe  any  brokers  or 
camp-followers  who  might  be  inclined  to  seize 
the  opportunity  to  give  vent  to  exuberance  be- 
yond the  limits  of  decorum,  we  had  a  special 
cordon  of  police  that  night. 

They  were  not  called  upon,  however.  The 
house  was  packed,  and  the  brokers  wildly 
cheered  the  oratorical  efforts  of  their  co- 
laborers;  they  even  interjected  a  remark  now 
and  then ;  but  kept  well  within  bounds,  and  the 

231 


evening  brought  fresh  forensic  honors  to  the 
brilliant  sisters. 


Sometime  afterward  I  was  walking  along  a 
street  in  Indianapolis,  on  my  way  to  call  on 
Harry  New,  proprietor  and  editor  of  "The 
Indianapolis  Journal."  Suddenly  I  heard  a 
carriage  stop  behind  me,  and  a  voice  call  out: 

"Oh,  Mr.  Morrissey,  this  is  providential! 
You  are  just  the  man  I  want  to  see." 

I  turned,  and  beheld  the  radiant  countenance 
of  Miss  Tennie  C.  Claflin.  She  explained  that 
she  was  thinking  of  giving  a  lecture  in  Indian- 
apolis, and  asked  me  if  I  would  manage  it  for 
her. 

I  assured  her  that  I  should  be  delighted,  and 
told  her  I  should  begin  at  once  by  taking  her  to 
call  on  Harry  New,  the  most  desirable  man  in 
the  city  for  her  to  know. 

Well-heralded  by  "The  Journal,"  the  lecture 
was  a  success  in  every  way.  When  I  next 
heard  of  the  sisters  they  had  forsaken  lecturing 
and  stocks  for  the  bonds  of  matrimony  in  the 
English  peerage. 


232 


(m 


ROSE   COGHLAN 


SIGNOR  CAMPANARI 


DEWOLF   HOPPER 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SARATOGA  AT  ITS  HEIGHT. 

The  month  was  June.  Long  twilights,  and 
soft  airs  that  came  over  new-mown  lawns,  and 
flower  beds,  and  lilac-bushes,  suggesting  these 
wanderings  in  their  fragrance,  were  casting  a 
spell  too  potent  for  the  theatrical  world  to  hope 
to  rival — and  so  the  dramatic  season  was  in  its 
last  days. 

I  was  attending  to  the  finances  of  "The 
American  Heiress,"  at  McVicker's  Theater  in 
Chicago.  The  "Heiress,"  however,  was  about 
to  go  into  retirement  for  the  summer,  and  I  had 
decided  that  this  probably  would  be  my  fate 
too,  when  William  Seymour,  who  had  staged 
the  play,  told  me  one  day  of  plans  for  a  Shake- 
spearean festival  at  Saratoga. 

A  Shakespearean  festival!  After  the  tur- 
moil of  a  hard  season  on  the  road  the  words 
had  a  soothing  and  alluring  sound,  and  I 
forthwith  telegraphed  to  Woolley  and  Garrins, 
lessees  of  the  Grand  Union  Hotel,  who  were 
planning  the  entertainment,  that  I  was  open  to 
an  offer  to  take  charge  of  the  business  arrange- 
ments. They  wired  back  asking  me  to  come  to 
Saratoga  as  soon  as  possible. 

The  next  day  I  started  East.    It  was  the  time 

235 


of  the  Pullman  strike.  Few  of  the  cars  of  the 
Pullman  Company  were  being  used,  and  few 
persons  were  riding  in  them,  since  they  were 
being  made  the  objects  of  riotous  attacks  along 
the  line.  But  having  no  desire  to  arrive  at  my 
destination  wearied  from  a  long  vigil  in  a  day 
coach,  I  concluded  to  take  my  chance  in  a 
sleeper. 

The  only  other  occupants  of  the  car  were  a 
man  and  his  daughter,  and  he,  I  learned  after- 
ward, when  we  had  become  united  by  the  bond 
of  a  common  menace,  was  no  less  a  person  than 
President  Harper  of  the  University  of  Chicago. 

Our  train  serenely  glided  through  Illinois, 
and  my  two  fellow-passengers  and  myself  were 
beginning  to  congratulate  ourselves  upon  being 
above  the  groundless  fears  that  had  caused 
others  to  forego  the  luxury  of  the  Pullman  for 
the  ordinary  cars  in  front.  But  suddenly,  at  a 
little  town  in  Indiana,  where  no  stop  was 
scheduled,  our  train  came  to  a  standstill. 

The  station  was  crowded  with  men  who,  it 
quickly  became  apparent,  had  been  waiting  for 
us.  While  the  air  still  was  whistling  from  the 
brakes  they  swarmed  over  the  station  platform 
with  a  clamor  of  shouts,  and  came  running  to- 
ward the  Pullman. 

They  shook  their  fists  and  cried  out  impre- 

236 


cations  upon  the  car  and  upon  us  who  were 
patronizing  it. 

One  big  fellow  hurled  a  stone.  Others  fol- 
lowed his  example,  and  in  an  instant  we  three 
passengers  had  become  besieged.  Stones  rat- 
tled against  the  side  of  that  offending  Pullman 
and  crashed  in  through  the  windows.  The 
attack  had  come  so  quickly  that  we  had  had  no 
time  to  escape.  We  crouched  down  in  our 
seats,  afraid  to  move.  The  conductor  thrust  an 
excited  face  in  at  the  forward  door  and 
shouted : 

"If  you  value  your  lives,  get  out  of  here 
quick !  They're  uncoupling  the  car  to  wreck  it. 
You'll  be  killed." 

Having  no  wish  to  die  in  this  inglorious  way, 
and  yet  feeling  that  I  could  not  leave  the  col- 
lege president  and  his  daughter  there  alone,  I 
raised  my  voice  sharply  above  the  tumult: 
"Take  your  daughter  and  make  a  run  for  the 
forward  car." 

"Yes,  father,  come,  come!"  the  girl  urged 
tremulously. 

They  went,  and  I  lost  no  time  in  following. 
A  jeer  of  derision  rose  from  the  strikers  as  we 
sought  cover  among  the  passengers  in  the  car 
ahead. 

A  moment  afterward  the  Pullman  was  un- 

237 


coupled,  and  the  mob  pushed  it  backward. 
There  was  a  down-grade.  The  car  gathered 
momentum  and  went  careening  off  to  destruc- 
tion. It  goes  without  saying  that  we  thanked 
our  stars  that  we  had  escaped  from  it  in  time. 

About  a  hundred  miles  further  on  the  train 
picked  up  another  Pullman,  and  the  remainder 
of  my  journey  to  Saratoga  was  free  from  ex- 
citement. 

We  made  great  preparations  for  that  Shake- 
spearean festival.  It  was  to  begin  with  the 
production  of  "The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor" 
on  the  hotel  lawn.  Needing  a  forest,  we  trans- 
planted one.  That  is,  we  sent  to  the  woods  a 
gang  of  men,  who  dug  from  their  native  heath 
a  lot  of  young  trees  that  were  comely,  and 
appeared  as  if  they  would  do  well  before  the 
footlights,  and  arranged  them  on  one  side  of 
the  lawn. 

The  night  of  the  production  came  at  last,  a 
serene  night  of  midsummer  softness.  Our 
trees  were  hung  with  illuminated  bulbs  in  the 
shape  of  fruit,  and  with  these  little  lights  shin- 
ing among  the  leaves  against  the  background 
of  darkness,  the  impression  from  the  seats  was 
that  of  a  veritable  fairy  forest.  The  roof  of 
our  theater  was  the  starry  sky;  the  moon  wit- 
nessed the  performance  without  a  ticket, 

.238 


The  stentorian  tones  of  De  Wolf  Hopper  in 
the  part  of  Falstaff  carried  well  on  the  soft 
night  air,  and  Rose  Coghlan,  who  also  is  gifted 
with  a  voice  of  unusual  power  and  resonance, 
was  equally  effective.  Some  of  the  others 
appearing  were  Henry  Clay  Barnabee,  Signor 
Campanari  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House, 
Camille  D'Arville,  Minnie  Seligman  and  Adele 
Ritchie.  All  did  well.  They  were  inspired  by 
the  novelty  and  romantic  atmosphere  of  this 
night  performance  beneath  the  stars,  and  en- 
joyed the  performance  as  much  as  did  the 
great  audience,  among  whom  were  the  follow- 
ing distinguished  people:  Chauncey  Depew, 
W.  K.  Vanderbilt,  Frank  Tilford,  Levi  P. 
Morton,  W.  Bourke  Cockran,  John  D.  Crim- 
mins,  Delancey  Nicoll,  General  Howard  Car- 
roll, Perry  Belmont,  Daniel  Frohman,  William 
A.  Brady,  David  Belasco,  Walter  Damrosch, 
Charles  Steinway,  Thomas  F.  Ryan,  Charles 
Frohman,  Moses  Herrman,  Roosevelt  Schuy- 
ler,  Ex-Mayor  Gilroy,  and  members  of  their 
families. 

We  had  a  merry  little  supper  afterward. 
Rose  Coghlan  was  in  the  party.  She  was  in 
gay  mood  when  we  sought  our  rooms ;  but,  in 
the  words  of  Byron:  "Who  would  think  that 

239 


upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  dawn  could 
rise?" 

I  had  been  asleep  for  only  about  five  minutes, 
it  seemed  to  me,  when  I  heard  an  insistent 
knocking  on  my  door.  I  aroused  myself 
drowsily  and  opened  it.  There  stood  a  boy. 

"Great  heavens!"  I  exclaimed.  "What  is 
the  matter  ?  It's  hardly  light  yet." 

"I  know,  sir,"  answered  the  boy  in  an  apolo- 
getic tone;  "but  Miss  Coghlan  has  sent  word 
that  she  wants  to  see  you  as  soon  as  possible." 

Wonderingly  I  donned  my  clothes  and  made 
my  way  across  the  hotel  grounds  to  the  annex 
in  which  our  star  had  her  room.  The  debris 
of  the  festivities  of  the  night  was  all  around. 
The  trees  that  had  stood  so  bravely  with  their 
twinkling  lanterns  seemed  in  the  wan  light  for- 
lorn and  dejected,  as  if  they  were  tired  and  a 
long  way  from  home.  The  improvised  stage, 
of  which  we  had  been  so  proud,  seemed  tawdry. 
The  chairs,  which  had  been  arranged  in  orderly 
rows,  were  scattered  and  some  upset.  The  air 
was  damp  and  chilly.  Life  was  only  a  mockery, 
after  all. 

I  knocked  half-heartedly  on  the  door  to 
which  the  boy  directed  me.  Miss  Coghlan  was 
up  and  dressed. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry  to  get  you  up  at  this  un- 

340 


earthly    hour,    Mr.    Morrissey,"    she    began 
hastily;  "but—" 

"So  am  I  sorry,"  I  interrupted,  without 
attempting  to  conceal  my  feelings. 

"But  I've  had  a  great  misfortune,"  she  went 
on,  "and  I  simply  couldn't  rest  till  I'd  told  you 
about  it.  You  remember  the  check  of  two  hun- 
dred dollars  for  my  salary  you  gave  me  last 
night?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  it." 

"Well,  I  had  it  cashed  by  the  hotel  clerk,  be- 
cause I  thought  I  might  want  to  spend  a  little 
money  before  going  to  bed,  and  now  every 
cent  is  gone.  I've  lost  it  all,  and  I  depended 
on  it  to  get  me  to  San  Francisco  for  my  sum- 
mer engagement.  I  had  expected  to  start  to- 
day. Indeed,  I  must  start  to-day  in  order  to 
arrive  on  time  for  my  opening.  And  yet  I 
haven't  even  enough  money  to  buy  a  railroad 
ticket  to  New- York.  Was  ever  woman  so  un- 
fortunate?" 

"Careless  women  have  been,"  I  replied.  "I 
sympathize  with  you  sincerely;  but  what  do 
you  want  me  to  do  ?" 

"Why,  if  you  only  would  make  a  search  be- 
fore the  servants  begin  to  clean  up.  Look  in 
the  restaurant.  I  was  there  last.  It  may  be 
under  the  table,  on  a  chair.  It  must  be  some- 

241 


where.    Find  it,  do  find  it !    If  you  don't  I  shall 
be  in  the  worst  predicament  of  my  life." 

Her  tragic  tones  moved  me,  sleepy  as  I  was. 
I  took  the  boy,  unearthed  a  porter,  and  to- 
gether we  ransacked  the  restaurant  and  other 
places  where  we  thought  Miss  Coghlan  might 
have  been.  But  my  drowsy  eyes  were  glad- 
dened by  no  roll  of  bills.  I  went  back  and  told 
Miss  Coghlan  so.  Her  despair  was  great. 

"Oh,  come,  cheer  up !"  I  said.  "There  have 
been  more  serious  misfortunes  in  the  history 
of  the  world.  The  day  will  come  when  you  will 
look  back  with  smiles  upon  this  tearful  dawn. 
Perhaps  you  won't  have  to  walk  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, after  all.  I'll  see  you  again  after  break- 
fast. Meanwhile,  compose  yourself  and  get 
some  rest." 

I  lost  as  little  time  as  possible  in  following 
that  advice  myself,  and  worried  no  more  about 
the  catastrophe,  because  I  had  thought  of  a 
plan  by  which  Miss  Coghlan  might  be  relieved 
of  her  distress. 

After  a  leisurely  ten  o'clock  breakfast  I  told 
Mr.  Woolley  the  sad  tale  of  the  lost  roll.  He 
was  in  a  generous  mood,  as  I  thought  he  would 
be  after  the  financial  success  of  the  night  be- 
fore, and  received  with  great  good  nature  my 

242 


suggestion  that  we  start  a  little  subscription 
for  Miss  Coghlan. 

"Why,  of  course !"  he  agreed.  "It's  the  only 
thing  to  do.  Put  me  down  for  fifty." 

With  this  good  start  I  approached  others  in 
the  hotel  whom  Miss  Coghlan  and  I  knew,  and 
to  whom  a  ten  or  twenty-dollar  bill  was  noth- 
ing. It  was  easy  to  gather  in  that  little  harvest 
of  bank-notes.  In  less  than  an  hour  my  labors 
were  completed.  To  give  the  affair  a  proper 
finishing  touch,  I  drew  up  a  testimonial,  in 
which  it  was  stated  that  the  undersigned  were 
glad  of  this  opportunity  to  express  their  appre- 
ciation of  the  sterling  merit  of  Miss  Coghlan 
as  a  woman  and  as  an  actress. 

She  had  had  her  breakfast  served  in  her 
room,  and  it  was  there  that  I  found  her,  with 
red  eyes  and  a  disconsolate  expression,  a 
mournful  picture. 

"You  won't  have  to  walk  to  San  Francisco/' 
I  said,  standing  in  the  doorway,  flourishing  the 
money,  "Read  this." 

When  she  glanced  over  my  testimonial  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears  again. 

"Oh,  this  is  glorious,  Jimmie,  glorious!  A 
thousand  times  I  thank  you  and  these  other 
good  friends  of  mine.  I  never  knew  I  had  so 

243 


many,  and  I  will  try  harder  than  ever  to  de- 
serve their  friendship." 

Then  she  had  to  put  on  her  hat  and  run  out 
to  thank  everybody  in  person.  She  took  a 
Western  train  that  afternoon,  and  a  little  party 
of  us  saw  her  off. 

"The  heavy  clouds  of  dawn  have  cleared 
away/'  I  remarked  to  her  smilingly  as  we 
shook  hands  at  the  car  steps. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  she  answered,  "and  I  never 
shall  forget  to-day.  Out  of  evil  cometh  good. 
All  this  kindness  has  been  an  inspiration 
to  me." 


We  gave  an  operatic  concert  that  evening, 
and  the  following  night  brought  the  festival 
to  a  triumphant  and  resplendent  close  with  a 
Shakespearean  ball,  the  feature  of  which  was 
a  minuet  danced  by  sixteen  men  and  women 
who,  to  all  appearance,  had  stepped  out  of 
Shakespeare's  plays.  I  wish  he  could  have 
been  present  to  see  those  people  of  his, 
He  would  have  been  astonished ;  for  their  selec- 
tion of  partners  for  the  dance,  and  their  actions 
in  general  were  wholly  inconsistent  with  their 
characters. 

Old  King  Lear,  for  instance,  was  gay  and 
flirtatious,  and  danced  nimbly  with  the  young 

244 


and  tender  Juliet.  Shylock  chose  Portia  for  a 
partner,  and  seemed  on  the  best  of  terms  with 
her  apparently  wholly  forgetful  of  the  way 
in  which  she  turned  the  scales  on  him  in 
the  question  of  the  pound  of  flesh.  "The  en- 
trance of  Duncan  under  her  battlements,"  no 
longer  bothered  Lady  Macbeth,  and  it  was  ob- 
vious that  she  found  a  good  deal  of  pleasure 
in  the  society  of  the  foolish  Sir  Andrew 
Aguecheek.  Hamlet,  having  cast  his  melan- 
choly to  the  winds,  capered  mincingly  with  one 
of  the  merry  wives  of  Windsor.  Julius  Caesar 
and  Ophelia  evidently  discovered  much  in  com- 
mon. The  fierce  Othello  took  a  fancy  to  the 
gentle  Rosalind — and  so  it  went.  It  was  an 
off-night  for  all  of  these  celebrities. 

A  little  tragedy  of  our  own  day  had  a  happy 
ending  that  night.  De  Wolf  Hopper  had  been 
angered  by  a  critical  paragraph  written  by  the 
correspondent  of  a  New- York  paper  about  a 
certain  feminine  member  of  the  cast  of  "The 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  and  had  struck 
the  unlucky  writer. 

There  was  a  general  assembling  in  the  hotel 
restaurant  after  the  ball.  The  correspondent 
was  with  our  party,  and  Hopper  sat  with 
friends  at  an  adjacent  table.  I  was  full  of  a 
"peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men,"  spirit,  and 

245 


it  grieved  me  to  see  this  yawning  breach  be- 
tween two  good  fellows.  Impelled  by  this  feel- 
ing, I  stepped  over  to  the  actor's  table. 

"Hopper/'  I  said,  "I've  come  over  here  as 
a  peacemaker.  It's  too  bad  that  you  and  our 
friend  should  be  enemies.  You  must  admit 
that  you  were  hasty  yesterday,  to  say  the  least. 
Why  don't  you  make  everything  right  by  go- 
ing over  with  me  and  apologizing?" 

He  glanced  up  at  me  quickly,  and  ex- 
claimed :  "By  George,  I  will !" 

The  apology  was  made  in  a  loud  and  hearty 
voice  that  the  whole  room  could  hear.  It  won 
the  writer.  The  two  shook  hands,  and  we  in- 
vited the  comedian's  friends  over  to  our  table, 
where  we  had  a  little  love-feast. 


24  G 


MARY   ANDERSON 
(MADAME  DE  NAVARRO) 


NELSON  ROBERTS 


JAMES  W.  MORRISSEY 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SOME  EMINENT  MEN  AND  WOMEN. 

Through  a  haze  of  years  I  look  back  and 
see  a  girl,  tall  and  lithe,  with  clear,  compelling 
eyes,  warm-tinted  hair  rippling  back  from  a 
forehead  smooth  as  marble,  a  complexion  of 
white  and  pink,  and  the  profile  of  a  maid  of 
old  Greece.  It  was  in  a  hotel  parlor  that  I 
first  saw  her.  I  knew  little  of  her,  except  that 
she  was  beautiful,  and  that  her  name  was 
Mary  Anderson. 

Upon  the  invitation  of  her  stepfather,  Dr. 
Hamilton  Griffin,  I  had  gone  to  her  hotel.  On 
my  way  I  speculated  considerably  about  this 
young  actress,  who  had  taken  the  West  by 
storm,  and  now  had  come  to  New- York  to 
have  the  final  stamp  placed  upon  her  success, 
and  wondered  what  the  fates  ordained  that  I 
should  have  to  do  with  her  work. 

Then  I  saw  Miss  Anderson:  the  most  im- 
pressive type  of  young  womanhood  that  ever 
came  within  my  horizon,  and  listened  to  a 
voice  that  was  like  the  sweet  murmur  of  a 
chant  in  the  distance.  She  and  I  chatted 
casually  for  a  brief  period.  I  asked  her  how 
she  liked  New- York.  She  did  not  like  it  much, 
not  nearly  so  well  as  Louisville. 

249 


"But  you  are  going  to  like  it  better,"  I  re- 
marked, "because  New- York  is  going  to  like 
you." 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  She  leaned  for- 
ward with  a  sudden  radiant  smile  and  look  of 
eager  inquiry. 

Afterward  I  talked  business  with  Dr.  Grif- 
fin, and,  not  then,  but  some  years  later,  be- 
came Miss  Anderson's  manager  under  the  di- 
rection of  Joseph  Brooks.  It  was  at  Booth's 
Theater.  I  was  right  about  New- York  liking 
her.  The  public  flocked  to  this  playhouse  to 
see  the  young  Kentucky  girl  who  had  risen  so 
quickly  into  the  firmament  of  dramatic  stars. 

After  the  first  performances  the  manager 
does  not  watch  the  stage  usually,  except  for 
business  reasons ;  but  night  after  night  I  used 
to  stand  "in  front,"  because,  however  old  the 
story  of  the  play  might  be,  the  beauty  and 
magnetism  of  Mary  Anderson  always  was  new 
to  me. 

It  was  not  alone  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 
theater  that  I  saw  her.  I  remember  vividly 
one  afternoon  at  her  Long  Branch  cottage. 
She  gave  a  tea-party  on  the  lawn.  The  tables 
were  spread  there.  The  grass  was  our  carpet 
and  the  branches  of  trees  our  ceiling.  A  mer- 
rier company  never  sat  down  to  partake  of  re- 

250 


freshment,  and  the  merriest  of  all  was  the  girl 
who  the  night  before  had  been  the  stately 
Galatea. 

Afterward  we  went  rowing  on  the  little  lake 
that  reached  into  the  grounds.  Six  of  us  got 
into  one  boat.  It  sank  deep  into  the  water ;  but 
our  hostess  insisted  upon  taking  the  oars,  and 
she  pulled  with  a  sure  and  lusty  stroke.  We 
sang,  and  with  the  rhythmic  swaying  of  her 
body  and  dipping  of  the  blades  she  kept  time. 
She  was  not  Mary  Anderson  the  actress  now, 
but  Mary  Anderson  the  high-spirited  girl,  with 
the  world  before  her. 

After  the  Booth's  Theater  engagement  Miss 
Anderson  toured  the  country,  winning  na- 
tional fame.  She  went  to  London  and  dupli- 
cated her  American  success.  Her  native  land 
was  proud  of  her,  and  its  people  everywhere 
came  to  speak  of  her  as  "Our  Mary/' 

Cupid,  as  was  natural,  had  been  hovering 
about  her.  At  last  he  shot  an  arrow  that  went 
true  to  the  mark.  Miss  Anderson  married,  and 
bade  the  stage  farewell.  She  said  that  she 
would  act  no  more. 

This  announcement  was  not  received  with 
entire  seriousness.  The  fact  was,  few  be- 
lieved her.  For  years  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd 
had  been  in  her  ears.  She  had  fame,  admira- 

351 


tion,  success  such  as  does  not  come  to  many 
mortals,  a  life  splendid  in  its  inspirations. 
What  woman,  queried  the  doubters,  could 
put  behind  her  absolutely  the  intoxication  of 
general  adulation  for  the  bonds  of  matrimony  ? 
Other  famous  actresses,  they  observed,  had 
renounced  the  stage,  and  had  returned  to  it. 
The  exercise  and  expression  of  one's  powers 
was  the  only  real  life,  they  said,  and  in  the 
case  of  a  woman  with  the  beauty  and  dramatic 
gifts  of  Mary  Anderson  the  stage  would  be 
beckoning  constantly  to  her,  and  eventually 
she  would  respond. 


Years  passed,  and  she  did  not  respond.  Yet 
it  is  an  adage  in  the  rough  that  you  never  can 
tell  about  a  woman.  Until  the  end  she 
may  be  expected  to  change  her  mind.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  that  Mary  Anderson  might 
yield  to  the  promptings  of  her  dramatic  temp- 
erament. I  interviewed  a  number  of  prominent 
persons,  who  had  known  her  personally  or  had 
seen  her  act,  and  found  that  their  desire  was 
strong  that  "Our  Mary"  return  to  inspire  and 
gratify  them. 

I  drew  up  a  letter,  and  had  it  written  on 
parchment,  embellished  with  silk  brocade,  and 

352 


mounted  in  silver.    The  letter  read  as  follows : 

DEAR  MADAM:  The  undersigned  would 
greatly  appreciate  the  honor  of  a  visit  from 
you  to  the  United  States,  whereby  your  genius 
once  again  can  be  made  manifest  to  the  men 
•and  women  of  your  native  land,  thousands  of 
whom,  in  the  new  generation,  have  not  had 
the  pleasure  of  beholding  you,  and  who  are 
eager  to  do  homage  to  your  noble  and  gracious 
presence. 

It  is  proposed  that  readings  from  the  poets, 
especially  Shakespeare,  Tennyson  and  Long- 
fellow, be  embodied  in  your  programs,  the 
formation  of  which  shall  be  left  entirely  to 
yourself;  and  your  proposal  that  part  of  the 
gross  receipts  arising  from  each  performance 
in  every  city  of  the  United  States  be  devoted 
to  charity  will  be  observed  cheerfully,  and  ex- 
ecuted by  your  prospective  managers,  Nelson 
Roberts  and  James  W.  Morrissey. 

This  invitation  was  signed  by  Cardinal  Gib- 
bons, Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chauncey  Depew,  General 
and  Mrs.  Nelson  A.  Miles,  General  and  Mrs. 
Thomas  L.  James,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  J. 
Gould,  Charles  J.  Bonaparte,  Archbishop  Far- 
ley, W.  Bourke  Cockran,  Clarence  H.  Mackey, 
John  D,  Crimmins,  Bishop  Potter,  George  B, 

253 


McClellan,  General  Howard  Carroll,  W.  W. 
Abeel,  F.  Egerton  Webb,  W.  K.  Vanderbilt, 
Henry  Gilsey,  Russell  Sage,  Edward  Lauter- 
bach,  Senator  Aldrich,  W.  G.  Morse,  Bishop 
D.  H.  Greer  and  Governor  B.  B.  Odell. 

I  know  of  no  other  actress  who  has  been 
honored  by  a  like  summons  from  distinguished 
fellow-countrymen.  But  this  of  course  was  to 
be  re-inforced  by  a  more  material  and  substan- 
tial inducement.  I  was  authorized  by  Nelson 
Roberts  to  offer  Madam  de  Navarro  one  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  and  a  share  in  the 
receipts. 


Like  a  fisherman  with  a  strong  confidence  in 
his  equipment  for  the  cast,  I  embarked  for 
England.  In  London  I  tarried  a  day,  and  then, 
without  sending  in  advance  any  announcement 
of  my  coming,  I  journeyed  down  through  sixty 
miles  of  orchard  country  to  the  village  of 
Broadway,  in  Worcestershire. 

I  found  it  a  quaint  hamlet,  with  streets  that 
rambled  in  a  sort  of  easy-going  manner,  and 
houses  that  evidently  were  built  at  a  time 
when  architects  thought  more  of  substantia- 
bility  than  of  ornate  effect,  and  yet  which  had 
a  beauty  all  their  own,  that  of  a  dignified  sim- 
plicity. A  peaceful  village  was  Broadway.  It 

254 


seemed  to  be  brooding  on  its  centuries  of 
memories. 

The  night  of  my  arrival  I  spent  in  an  ancient 
inn,  where  I  was  informed,  Cardinal  Wolsey 
had  been  entertained  several  times  in  the  days 
of  "Bluff  King  Hal."  I  should  not  like  to 
testify  in  court  that  the  great  oak  "four- 
poster"  which  received  me  into  its  soft  depths 
was  the  very  one  in  which  the  astute  adviser  of 
King  Henry  VIII.  had  composed  himself  to 
rest;  but  I  let  my  fancy  persuade  me  that  it 
was.  Indeed,  my  imagination  turned  back  the 
dial  of  time  some  three  hundred  and  fifty  years 
and  I  was  a  courier  with  a  message  for  the 
Queen.  There  was  nothing  in  the  furnishings 
of  that  primitive  old  room  to  interfere  with 
this  idea. 

But  suddenly  the  sunshine  was  streaming  in, 
and  the  twittering  of  many  birds  was  in  my 
ears.  It  was  a  glorious  day,  this  one  which 
would  be  the  real  beginning,  or  would  end  my 
project.  But  of  the  latter  possibility  I  did  not 
permit  myself  to  think.  How  could  everything 
except  trouble  and  perplexity  end  upon  a  day 
when  all  nature  was  expanding  with  joy  and 
singing  a  chorus  of  thanksgiving. 

When  I  asked  a  husky  liveryman  if  he  would 
drive  me  over  to  Court  Farm,  the  home  of  the 

255 


de  Navarros,  he  answered  cheerily:  "Aye,  sir 
that  I  will!  It's  a  pleasant  place  you're  going 
to,  sir.  Many's  the  visitor  I've  taken  there." 

For  seven  miles  we  drove  through  orchards 
white,  pink  and  purple  with  blossoms,  and  as 
I  went  the  delicately  scented  air,  the  well-kept 
houses  that  yet  seemed  to  belong  to  another 
age,  the  cool  and  fragrant  woods,  the  glimpses 
of  rolling  hills  and  pasture  lands  where  cattle 
grazed,  banished  from  my  mind  all  wonder 
that  Mary  Anderson  had  not  returned  to  the 
stage,  and  began  to  make  me  doubt  whether 
after  all  I  should  be  able  to  win  her  from  a 
region  so  delightful. 

"You're  a  stranger  here,  I  see,"  remarked 
the  driver  as  we  reached  a  more  populous  part 
of  the  district. 

I  told  him  that  I  was. 

"Per'aps  you  know,  though/'  he  went  on, 
"that  the  mistress  of  Court  Farm  used  to  be 
in  big  plays  up  in  London  and  in  America  ber 
fore  she  came  here,  and  had  all  the  people 
cheerin'  and  clappin'  hands  because  she  was 
so  great?" 

I  assured  him  that  I  had  some  knowledge 
of  this  fact. 

"Well,  you'd  never  think  it  from  her  way 
with  us  folks  about  here — she's  so  offhand  and 

256 


friendly-like.  It's  always  a  nod  and  a  smile 
when  we  pass  her  on  the  road,  and  in  the 
village  she'll  stop  us  with  a  'Good-mornin', 
John,  and  how's  the  wife,  or  how's  the  little 
one  to-day?'  She  knows  all  our  given  names, 
sir,  and  when  anybody  has  to  take  to  bed  with 
sickness,  why,  almost  before  the  news  of  it 
gets  around  the  village  her  carriage  will  be  at 
the  door.  She  comes  right  in  and  makes  herself 
at  home,  and  the  sick  man,  woman  or  child 
can't  help  but  to  feel  better  just  from  the  sight 
of  her.  More  than  that,  the  Court  Farm 
brougham  rolls  up  again  the  same  day  and  the 
footman  jumps  off  the  box  with  something. 
When  you  open  it,  sir,  your  mouth  waters,  be- 
cause it's  the  very  thing  you've  been  cravin' 
for." 


At  last  the  surrey  wheels  crunched  on  a 
gravel  roadway,  and  I  was  at  the  English 
home  of  Mary  Anderson.  It  was  a  stone 
house,  with  turrets  and  ecclesiastical  steeple. 
Ivy  climbed  the  walls.  It  was  not  large,  but 
it  had  a  certain  stateliness,  and  the  flavor  of 
age  was  on  it.  "This  is  just  the  kind  of  house," 
I  commented  to  myself,  "that  I  should  have 
expected  Mary  Anderson  to  select  for  a  home." 

She  rushed  to  the  door  as  soon  as  I  was 

267 


announced,  and  at  sight  of  me  her  face  was 
illuminated  by  her  old  brilliant  smile,  and  she 
held  out  both  her  hands  in  an  impulsive  way 
that  I  remembered  well.  "Why,  Mr.  Morris- 
sey!"  she  cried.  "Come  in,  come  in!  I'm 
truly  glad  to  see  a  friend  from  dear  New- 
York." 

As  she  smiled,  and  as  the  rich,  moving  tones 
of  her  voice  fell  upon  my  ears,  I  was  carried 
back  through  the  years.  It  was  indeed  the 
charming  Mary  Anderson  of  other  days,  her 
very  self  so  well-known  in  America. 

"You've  arrived  opportunely,"  she  went  on. 
"We're  just  sitting  down  to  luncheon.  Over 
the  tea-cups  we  can  chat  about  old  times." 

In  a  little  while,  with  beating  heart,  I  will 
confess,  for  the  decisive  moment  of  my  long 
journey  had  come.  I  placed  in  her  hands  the 
invitation.  She  scanned  it  eagerly. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful?"  she  exclaimed,  holding 
it  up  to  the  light,  and  then,  turning  to  Mr.  de 
Navarro,  she  said:  "Look,  dear.  See  the 
names  of  all  these  famous  people.  They  want 
me  to  return  to  America." 

I  asked  her  to  read  it  aloud.  With  a  smile 
she  consented.  All  the  deep,  musical  notes  of 
the  voice  that  has  thrilled  great  crowds,  all  the 
fine  effects  of  unconscious  eloquence,  were  still 

258 


there.  More  than  ever  was  I  anxious  that  my 
mission  be  successful. 

"Well,"  I  said,  drawing  a  long  breath  when 
she  concluded,  "is  it  all  right?  May  I  cable 
'Yes'  to  New- York  to-night?" 

Madam  de  Navarro  at  once  became  thought- 
ful. "I  am  deeply  touched,"  she  said  slowly. 
"It  is  a  very  serious  matter.  I  must  think  it 
over  carefully.  Give  me  a  few  days  to  decide 
— let  us  say  a  week." 

"If  you  wish  to  go,  you  have  my  full  con- 
sent," remarked  her  husband. 

"I'll  coax  mamma  to  go,"  cried  little  Jose, 
their  eight-year-old  son,  who  had  been  hover- 
ing about  with  his  eyes  glowing  with  pleasant 
excitement  at  the  thought  of  a  trip  to  the 
United  States. 

Afterward  I  mentioned  in  detail  the  terms  of 
the  offer,  and  then  Madam  de  Navarro  led  me 
along  the  wide  hall  to  the  farther  end,  where 
was  spread  out  to  my  view  a  wide  vista  of 
fields  and  orchards  and  bits  of  woods.  She 
called  my  attention  to  her  flower  gardens,  to 
which  she  told  me  she  was  devoted.  She  told 
me  too  something  of  her  interest  in  the  people 
of  the  country-side,  and  how  her  little  atten- 
tions had  given  her  their  affections  in  a  degree 
that  made  it  good  to  live  among  them. 

259 


The  shadows  were  growing  long  across  the 
road  when  I  rode  back  to  the  station,  exhila- 
rated by  my  contact  with  the  personality  of 
Mary  Anderson  and  her  charming  home-life. 


In  London  the  letter  came  informing  me  that 
she  could  not  give  it  up.  It  was  as  follows: 

COURT  FARM,  BROADWAY, 

WORCESTERSHIRE,  May  7,  1904. 

DEAR  MR.  MORRISSEY:  With  a  deep  sense 
of  my  unworthiness  of  the  honor  bestowed 
upon  me  by  so  many  of  America's  most  dis- 
tinguished people,  in  both  the  religious  and 
secular  world,  and  with  an  intense  feeling  of 
gratitude  for  their  kind  thoughts  and  words,  I 
still  am  compelled  by  conviction  not  to  deviate 
from  my  resolution  made  fifteen  years  ago :  not 
again  to  enter  into  the  rush  and  excitement  of 
public  life.  It  is  with  real  regret  that  I  feel 
impelled  to  decline  this  unique  request, 
signed  by  so  many  whom  I  admire  and  esteem. 

The  wish  on  my  part  to  contribute  occa- 
sionally to  the  entertainment  and  support  of 
the  poor,  it  would  seem,  has  been  the  source  of 
the  report  that  I  was  desirous  of  undertaking 
a  concert  tour  on  a  charitable-financial  basis. 
Nothing  was  or  is  farther  from  my  mind.  I 


have  consented  to  help  the  poor  here  occa- 
sionally with  whatever  talent  I  may  possess, 
but  without  remuneration  to  myself.  I  have 
appeared  five  times  during  the  past  year  in  the 
cause  of  charity,  and  I  purpose  reading  again 
at  the  People's  Palace,  East  End,  on  June  23. 
Further  than  this  I  never  have  considered  the 
possibility  of  a  professional  return  to  the  stage, 
concert  or  dramatic,  notwithstanding  the  re- 
peated flattering  offers  I  have  received  since 
my  retirement. 

Will  you  therefore  kindly  convey  my  sincer- 
est  thanks  and  regrets  to  my  eminent  compa- 
triots, and  accept  the  same  for  yourself.  In- 
deed, I  deeply  appreciate  all  the  trouble  you 
have  personally  taken  in  the  matter.  Yours, 
dear  Mr.  Morrissey,  with  kindest  regard, 
Very  truly. 

MARY  ANDERSON  DE  NAVARRO. 

So  my  mission  apparently  was  over ;  and  yet 
when  I  went  to  Broadway  again  to  bid  Madam 
de  Navarro  farewell,  I  felt  that  it  had  not 
failed  altogether. 

"You  may  rest  assured  of  one  thing,  Mr. 
Morrissey,"  she  remarked  as  we  shook  hands 
in  parting:  "if  I  ever  do  appear  again  on  the 
stage  in  the  United  States,  it  will  be  under 
your  management.  Indeed  it  could  not  be 

261 


otherwise,  after  such  a  formidable  list  of  dis- 
tinguished men  and  women  who  have  honored 
me  with  the  invitation." 

My  return  to  London  was  more  cheerful  than 
my  morning  journey  down  to  Broadway. 

"Gentlemen,"  I  said  that  night  at  a  supper 
where  I  met  the  correspondents  of  a  number 
of  New- York  newspapers  who  had  been  eager 
to  cable  to  the  United  States  that  Mary  Ander- 
son would  return,  "you  may  yet  delight  New- 
York  some  morning  with  the  news  that  'Our 
Mary'  is  coming  back.  I  have  lived  long 
enough  to  know  that  a  woman's  'No'  not  in- 
frequently is  a  'Yes'  in  disguise." 


THE  END. 


THE 


STEINWAY 


is  to-day  the  only  high-grade  piano 
in  the  United  States  which  is  made 
and  controlled  by  the  direct  descen- 
dants of  its  original  founder. 

All  the  rest  have  been  forced  to 
seek  the  alliance  or  amalgamation 
with  manufacturers  of  cheap  com- 
mercial pianos. 

Thus  time-honored  names  have 
become  mere  trade-marks,  lacking 
every  vestige  of  individuality. 

Able  to  pursue  its  lofty  ideals  un- 
fettered by  commercial  exigencies, 
the  house  of  Steinway  &  Sons  has 
exerted  all  its  energies  in  but  one 
direction,  with  the  flattering  result 
that  to-day  the  Steinway  is  pro- 
claimed everywhere — 

THE  STANDARD  PIANO  OF 
THE  WORLD 


Lyceum   Theatre 

DANIEL  FROHMAN,  Manager 


\Vest  45tk  Street,  near  Broadway 
New  York 


Tke  Home  of  All  tkat  Is  Excellent 
in  Comedy  and  Drama 


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